


Taming Draco Malfoy

by Becstar7



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Dom/sub Undertones, Drama, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Falling In Love, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by 10 Things I Hate About You (1999), M/M, Minor Character Death, Romance, Soul Bond, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:14:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 43
Words: 270,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27908800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Becstar7/pseuds/Becstar7
Summary: It's nearing the end of their sixth year at Hogwarts, and Pansy Parkinson is determined to change her best friend’s fate. When she not-so-accidentally overhears a shocking revelation regarding one Harry Potter, she devises a cunning plan to convince Draco to defect. Unfortunately,  where Potter is concerned, nothing ever really goes to plan...
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 1126
Kudos: 671





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by 10 Things I Hate About You, the brilliant movie adaptation of Shakespeare's Taming of the Shrew. This story is completely written, and chapters will be posted regularly. It's taken me almost a decade to write, and fair warning – it’s an epic, over 300k! So if you like long, plotty stories with a bit of world-building, a bit of character development and a whole lot of hot gay sex, then this is the one for you! Enjoy! :)
> 
> Dedicated to my sister, my muse and cheerleader, without whom this story would never have been finished!

**PROLOGUE  
**

_The lady in red, she in the chile-con-carne red,_  
 _Brilliant as the shine of a pepper crimson in the summer sun,_  
 _She behind a false-face, the much sought-after dancer,_  
 _the most sought-after dancer of all in this masquerade_  
~ Carl Sandburg

The ceiling of the Great Hall was painted a deep shadow-blue, the few, tiny stars in the sky above drowned out by thousands of floating candles casting warm, yellow light over the four long dinner tables.

Pansy Parkinson nibbled on a sweet roll, her eyes fixed on the door. Dinner was almost over, and Draco had yet to make an appearance. He so rarely did, these days.

It was a forlorn hope, but she couldn’t help but look for him. It had been months since he’d come to meals regularly, weeks since he’d stayed to eat a full course. He’d taken to wearing several layers of robes; for warmth, or to hide how thin he was becoming, she didn’t know.

It frightened her.

Her oldest and dearest friend was wasting away, his nerves fraying and his body slowly giving way under the strain. He wasn’t eating, wasn’t sleeping, wasn’t even really _speaking_ anymore. He was killing himself, slowly but surely; as surely as if he’d stood before the Dark Lord himself and refused to complete his task.

And there was nothing she could do to help him. She felt almost sick with hopelessness. There was nothing to hold onto anymore. Nothing but hate. Hate for what the Dark Lord had done to her family. Hate for what he was doing to Draco now.

She just needed to forget, for a while.

Alcohol, of course, was out of the question; she couldn’t risk putting herself in a position where her judgement might be impaired. But there were other ways. Robert Fawley, for example. He was a seventh-year Slytherin who had recently been dumped by his girlfriend of three years, Sadie, for another girl. It was a severe blow to the boy’s pride, and Pansy knew it wouldn’t take much to turn it to her advantage.

She stood, and her friends looked up, Daphne raising an eyebrow in question. Pansy shook her head, waving Blaise off when he moved to follow her.

Robert was sitting with a group of his friends at the head of the Slytherin table, and Pansy slowed her pace when she came up alongside them. He glanced up, and she caught his eyes with her own; held them just a fraction too long. His gaze turned from confused to calculating to predatory in seconds, and Pansy relaxed.

Slytherins were so _easy_.

She flicked her wand, and Robert broke eye contact, a smile curving his lips. He touched his arm, right where Pansy’s spell was scrawling a time and place under his sleeve. She turned away, satisfied. Message received. She had given him half an hour, which was more than enough time for him to read her note and decide whether to keep the assignation or not.

He would, of course.

She knew she had never been considered a great beauty; in fact, she had suffered the taunt _pug-face_ so often that Draco had taken it upon himself sometime during their second year to hex everyone who dared to say it within his earshot with a particularly vicious variant of the Stinging Hex. But he hadn’t cursed anyone on her behalf this year, and Pansy suspected it had less to do with his preoccupation with his task, and more to do with the fact that – well, she’d grown up. Every day, she could see more and more of her mother in herself. Other people had started to take notice, too.

Naturally, Pansy had taken full advantage of it. She’d lost her virginity to a nice, quiet boy in Hufflepuff, and had enjoyed various encounters since, though never with the same boy twice. That was her rule.

She made her way to the Astronomy tower, taking two staircases and crossing a hallway which connected the north and east wings. There was a small room at the base of the tower with a bed and an attached bathroom. It was very modest, but comfortable; Pansy suspected it had been the Astronomy professor’s quarters, once upon a time. Either way, it was perfect for her needs.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed,” said a voice, further up the hallway. Pansy dropped back automatically, recognising Harry Potter’s voice. “I don’t think he’s been to dinner in at least two weeks. As soon as class is over for the day, he disappears. Sometimes even _during_ the day, if he can get away with it. I must’ve tried a hundred different ways to get into the Room of Requirement –”

Pansy almost gasped aloud. She slipped into a nearby alcove, pressing herself up against the cool stone wall. Potter was moving away from her, no doubt making his way up to the Gryffindor dorms. Luckily, she had several eavesdropping spells in her arsenal for just such occasions.

“Harry, stop, please,” Granger said. She sounded weary. “Will you just let it go?”

“Hermione –”

“No,” she interrupted him again. “This obsession you have with him just isn’t healthy! I don’t care if he _is_ up to something, it’s taking over your life. Your grades are slipping, except in Potions, and you _know_ how I feel about that. I don’t think I’ve seen you just having fun in months. When was the last time you played a game of chess with Ron? Or even Exploding Snap with Seamus and Dean? I know it’s difficult, I _know_. But we can’t just stop living our lives because of _him_. You deserve to be happy.” There was a short silence, and Pansy almost raised her wand to check that the spell was still working. But Granger continued, a little more tentatively, “Why don’t you try dating again? One disastrous fling doesn’t mean you should give up.”

“I haven’t given up,” Potter protested. “I just –”

“ _Oh_ ,” Granger said, breathlessly. “Oh, Harry! Is that what this is about? Do you have a crush on Malfoy?”

Pansy froze.

There was the sound of someone choking. Weasley; of course Weasley, when were the Golden Trio ever apart? “ _What_?”

“Was that a joke?” Potter demanded, incredulously. “That’s not funny, Hermione!”

“It wasn’t meant to be,” Granger said. “Attraction isn’t wrong. It’s beyond your control. There’s no shame in it.”

“For Merlin’s sake!” Potter snapped. “I dated Justin for a month, remember? I don’t need you to tell _me_ that being attracted to boys isn’t _wrong_ –”

“Even if it is Malfoy?” she said.

Potter was silent.

“Look,” Granger said, lowering her voice, “it’s okay, Harry. Really. Malfoy is good-looking, and – and intelligent, and – well, I’m sure he has _some_ good qualities.” She sounded doubtful, and Pansy bristled. “My point is, maybe you’re fixating on him because you fancy him. There’s nothing inherently wrong with that, and I think maybe if you acknowledge it, you might be able to let this whole thing go.”

“You’re mental,” Weasley said, flatly. “Harry wouldn’t fancy Ferret-face if he were the last bloke on the planet. He’s got gerblins in his attic because he thinks Malfoy’s a Death Eater, not because he wants to _date_ him.” He made a disgusted noise. “Let it go, Hermione.”

Granger’s reply was muffled, and Pansy realised they had moved beyond the range of her spell.

She frowned, sinking down onto the stone bench.

She hadn’t even realised Potter was gay, let alone actively dating. And Pansy made it her business to know everything there was to know about her enemies. That he could have hidden something so fundamental to his personality, that there was even a possibility he might be attracted to Draco, have a _crush_ on him...

Something like hope flared to life in her chest.

They called Potter the Saviour of the Wizarding World for a reason, and not just because he’d defeated the Dark Lord as a squalling infant. He was the noblest of all the Gryffindors; the icon of all that was sickeningly good and honest and righteous in this world. Where Draco was powerless, Potter held too much power, whether he chose to wield it or not. He had Dumbledore’s ear, but not the Headmaster’s cynical world-view. He was hopelessly naïve, but oh-so- _very_ sincere and earnest in his beliefs.

And he was the only person who had ever managed to truly rile Draco up into such a state that he forgot himself, forgot his parents and his duties and the expectations that weighed so heavily on his shoulders as scion of the Malfoy line.

If Potter could be prevailed upon to approach Draco, offer him protection, he might be the only person Draco could ever consider such an offer from. And if Potter _did_ have feelings for Draco, any feelings other than blinding hatred, then there was hope that he _could_ be prevailed upon.

She’d given into grief and despair; the hopeless entanglement of a situation beyond even her ability to Slytherin an escape from. But if there was a way to get Draco out of this, any way at all –

Well, then. She would bloody well try it.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER ONE  
**

**SETTING THE STAGE  
**

_Twitched strings, the clang of metal, beaten drums,_   
_Dull, shrill, continuous, disquieting:_   
_And now the stealthy dancer comes_   
_Undulantly with cat-like steps that cling;_

_Smiling between her painted lids a smile,_  
 _Motionless, unintelligible, she twines_  
 _Her fingers into mazy lines,_  
 _The scarves across her fingers twine the while._  
~ Arthur Symons

Part One

The Potions classroom was quiet, only the scratch of quills across parchment disturbing the peace. Slughorn was writing his notes for their next potion up on the board, back turned to the class, and Harry let his attention drift. As so often these days, he found himself staring at the back of Malfoy’s head.

Now that Hermione had put the idea in his head, he was finding it harder than he would have thought to just dismiss it. Malfoy was… pretty, granted. In a pointy, pale kind of way. But he didn’t have a _crush_. He hadn’t suddenly given up on his resolve to get into the Room of Requirement, or forgotten Malfoy was a right evil little git who had cursed Katie Bell, and poisoned the mulled wine that had almost killed Ron.

Malfoy was just one of many boys he found vaguely attractive, one way or another.

He cast a guilty look at his best friend, but almost immediately his eyes were drawn back to white-blond hair. It looked soft to the touch, and he wondered what it would be like to thread his fingers through it, pull Malfoy’s head back, bite his throat…

He felt himself flush, and looked down at his sadly neglected parchment. If he failed this potion, it would be Malfoy’s fault. Malfoy and his annoyingly pretty hair.

Almost unwillingly, he glanced up again. Malfoy was staring right back at him.

He blinked, startled. Then Ron nudged him, and Harry realised it wasn’t just Malfoy; the whole class was staring at him. Ron nudged him again, more sharply.

“Uh –?”

“The properties of hawthorn leaves, Mr Potter?” Slughorn prompted.

“Oh! Right.” Harry glanced down at his textbook, hoping for inspiration. It was just a list of ingredients. _Hawthorn leaves, mock-orange sepals_... but in the margin, the Half-Blood Prince had scrawled _add two more mock-orange sepals, interacts with the hawthorn to boost the potency._

He’d studied the Resolution Potion the night before, so that struck a chord in his memory.

“Hawthorn leaves,” he said, “strengthen the potency of most potions. They’re commonly used in potions to provide insight into your own mind or emotions. Combined with mock-orange sepals, they work to bring clarity and resolution to a difficult situation. The Resolution Potion is therefore similar to Felix Felicis in that it aims to provide the perfect outcome.”

Slughorn beamed at him. “Extraordinarily insightful, Mr Potter!” he said, effusively. “Ten points to Gryffindor! Very well deserved, indeed!”

Harry smiled, feeling Hermione’s glower burning a hole through the side of his head. He only had eyes for one person, though. Malfoy stared back at him, lips twisted just a little, as if he was too tired to even sneer properly. Harry noticed uncomfortably that there were dark circles under his eyes.

Malfoy broke first, turning to face the front of the class again.

Strangely, it didn’t feel like a victory.

“As Mr Potter points out, the Resolution Potion has many properties in common with Felix Felicis,” Slughorn said. “It takes three weeks to brew correctly, and requires a further twenty-seven days buried in a glass phial beneath a cherry tree before it is ready for use. Can anyone tell me why?”

Hermione’s hand shot up, and Slughorn nodded at her.

“Cherry trees were often used in ancient wizarding rituals to stabilise and focus the mind, providing insight and increased intuition in order to overcome obstacles,” she said quickly. “They are grounded in extremely strong Earth Magic, and any potion buried between the roots will be imbued with this magic. In addition, the number twenty-seven is a powerful number in Arithmancy. Hence the number of days the phial is buried.”

“Precisely,” Slughorn said, pleased. “Five points to Gryffindor, Miss Granger. Now, due to the complexity of this potion, you will be working with partners…”

Harry was partnered with Hermione, who went up to get their potion ingredients. His attention wandered again.

“You’re staring at him again,” Hermione said, as she set their ingredients down on the table.

Harry jumped, startled. “I’m _watching_ him,” he said, irritably. “He’s planning something, remember?”

“Uh huh,” Hermione said dryly, and Harry spent the rest of the lesson fantasising about sabotaging their potion so it blew up in her face. Which was maybe slightly more appropriate than fantasising about the way Malfoy’s arse might feel in his hands… but not by much.

In the end, he just snuck in the two additional mock-orange sepals, and pretended not to know why their potion glimmered more than everyone else’s.

~*~

Pansy sat in the Muggle Studies classroom on the third floor, staring out the window. It faced east, towards the Forbidden Forest, but the glass was thick and rippled with age, and the rain blurred it even more, so that she could barely see past the greenhouses below.

They were exploring Muggle culture and history this year, and Professor Burbage had decided to spend an entire term on the works of the playwright Shakespeare.

Pansy had always considered Muggle Studies somewhat... biased, in the way it portrayed that alien world just outside their own. This newest topic, however, was just challenging enough to keep her interested, whilst giving them an insight into a part of Muggle history that was apparently just as flawed as their own.

Unfortunately, her mind couldn’t be further from Professor Burbage’s introductory lecture on Shakespeare’s _The Taming of the Shrew_. She was thinking about Draco. More precisely, about Draco and Potter. She’d watched Potter, all the day before and especially during double Potions, and it was so obvious she couldn’t help but wonder why no one else had cottoned on to it yet. Draco had confided in her several months ago that he thought Potter was following him, but it was more than that. Much more.

Unfortunately, that didn’t mean Potter would hear her out if she approached him. He despised her. Despised Slytherin, and everything they stood for.

And then there was Draco. How to ensure that Draco would believe the offer was genuine (and it had to be genuine), coming as it did from Harry Potter, bane of his existence?

“Katherina is trapped by her circumstances,” Professor Burbage said.

Pansy turned.

“She is viewed by the other characters as ill-tempered and undesirable, and yet she has many admirable qualities. She is a fiercely independent woman – highly intelligent, with a sharp wit and a quick tongue. She is jealous of the way her father favours her sister Bianca, and yet she refuses to submit to societal expectations of her role as obedient daughter or wife, even though the only way to find peace or happiness within the confines of her society is to do just that. It is not difficult, then, to imagine that Katherina’s foul temper stems from the fact that she is desperately unhappy; trapped, with no means of escape. And so she lashes out, becoming still more alienated by the society that she must fit into. Thus her anger grows, a vicious cycle she cannot break alone.”

Pansy had done the pre-reading, of course, but she had never thought to compare it to Draco’s situation. Now, the parallels were jumping out at her.

Draco was trapped, caged; not so very different from Katherina. A pretty, defenceless bird, afraid to even spread his wings within the confines of the cage, let alone fly out if someone opened the door for him. He couldn’t. There was no one he could trust not to slam the door in his face, or to reach out a hand and crush him in it.

“On the other hand,” Burbage continued, “Petruchio symbolizes everything that is wrong with this kind of oppressive Muggle society. He is materialistic, power-hungry, and chauvinistic. He dominates Katherina, ‘tames’ her with reverse psychology; almost cruel in his attempts to mould her into an obedient wife. We can interpret this several ways, most of which should be obvious. I’d like to argue, however, that it is, in a way, an unconventional love story. That Petruchio, despite being initially motivated by monetary gain, begins to appreciate the wit and intelligence of his chosen wife, and falls in love with her. He works to make their marriage a happy one within the strictures of the time. Though his methods seem cruel, when Katherina is deprived of sleep, it is implied that _he_ does not sleep. When she does not eat, he does not. Certainly, by the end of the play he has provided her with a place in society; commanding respect and consideration from her peers, something she had previously been denied. He was her escape. Not from society, but _into_ society.”

Pansy took a deep breath.

There was only one person who could do that for Draco. Pry open the bars and set him free. Give him the sky and coax him to soar.

Not that slippery, manipulative bastard Dumbledore, who would do anything – use anyone – if it meant winning this bloody war. Not Professor Snape, who undoubtedly cared for Draco, but was either a spy for the Dark Lord or Dumbledore, and either way, was too great a risk to confide in. Not even Pansy, because she was just as helpless as Draco, and her defection would mean less than nothing to him, even if he wanted it to.

“But, professor,” Mandy Brocklehurst said, her hand in the air, “didn’t you say Shakespeare was actually condemning misogyny with this play?”

“Indeed, Miss Brocklehurst,” Burbage said. “I believe it is a cautionary tale, a satire of male behaviour. The framing of the play within the induction supports this argument, as do the over-arching themes of Shakespeare’s other plays – Romeo and Juliet, for example, or Antony and Cleopatra, with such strong female leads. What you have to understand is that in the Muggle Elizabethan era, marriages of love were booming, and attitudes towards women were beginning to change. _The Taming of the Shrew_ offers us a look into this fascinating period of Muggle history…”

Pansy tuned her out at that point.

Marriages of love. Impossible for her, of course. She was a pureblood with an impeccable (if rather short, with only twelve generations) pedigree, and she was destined for an arranged marriage, as surely as the manticore’s sting was fatal. She refused to lose her heart to an impossible romance.

Boys like Robert Fawley were content with one-night stands. But there were others who had proven more reluctant to accept her no-dating rule. If she could persuade her most determined and devoted suitors that she would relax her rule, if only they could convince Potter to help Draco…

Well, wouldn’t that be worth the risk of a broken heart, in the end?

~*~

She took her time packing up after Charms, the next day. It was her favourite subject, and she was taking extra tutelage from Professor Flitwick one evening a week. Traditionally, of course, charms were not considered particularly useful in combat, but Flitwick was an exceptionally powerful wizard despite his small stature, and Pansy was determined to learn everything she could.

She stepped out of the classroom well after the last student, and was pleased to see both Seamus Finnigan and Blaise Zabini loitering in the hallway outside. They were the main rivals for her attention; the two who had persisted the longest in pursuing her, despite her many rejections.

Blaise, of course, was a notorious slut, and Pansy was well aware he wanted her only because she refused to sleep with him.

Finnigan, on the other hand, was a complete mystery to her. She’d slept with him once, at the beginning of the year. An impulse, their eyes catching across the Great Hall, and later, the brush of fingers walking into class. He’d never looked at her twice before that day, but ever since then, he’d begun to _court_ her. It was baffling, and completely backwards, but it was also an unbelievable stroke of good fortune.

Finnigan was, after all, the only Gryffindor in Potter’s close orbit who had taken an interest in her. He was almost as vital to her plan as Potter himself.

“Let me take that for you,” Seamus said gracefully, relieving her of her book bag. “Where’re we headed?”

She had to smile. Finnigan knew her routine by heart, and yet he insisted on asking every time, as if he didn’t want to presume. It was almost sweet. “Actually, I’d like to talk to both of you before we go to dinner, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course, my love,” Blaise said smoothly, pressing a hand to the small of her back. “I know an empty classroom where we won’t be interrupted.”

Seamus looked irritated at being so effortlessly cut out, but he trotted at her other side dutifully, two heavy book-bags slung casually over one shoulder.

“Is everything all right?” he asked quietly, as Blaise opened a door and peered inside. There was an undercurrent of anxiety in his tone, which didn’t surprise her. The Dark Lord was moving against the wizarding world, and news of disappearances, mysterious deaths and open attacks were growing in frequency.

Just two days ago, the Daily Prophet had reported a Death Eater assault on a Muggle primary school. Their Astronomy professor, Septima Vector, had lost her husband – a first grade teacher. The Muggles were calling it a ‘gas leak’. Just tragic, the deaths of all those so children and teachers in the explosion and subsequent fire. An inquiry had been opened.

Pansy didn’t suppose they would find anything. The Ministry Obliviators were far too good at their jobs, still frantically trying to clean up after the Dark Lord, to pretend they could stop what was coming.

It was comically, dangerously, naïve.

“I’m fine,” she assured Finnigan. “It’s not bad, I promise.”

He relaxed at that, and waited patiently as Pansy and Blaise set up Imperturbable Charms around the classroom, ensuring any chance passers-by would be unable to eavesdrop on the conversation.

The room itself was filthy, the few remaining chairs either broken or covered in a thick layer of grime. Seamus used a shirt sleeve to clean off the seat of one of them, and offered it to Pansy. She took it with a smile of thanks. Blaise claimed the only other unbroken chair, and Seamus shrugged, seating himself cross-legged at Pansy’s feet with a little smirk of triumph at his opposition.

Pansy ignored their posturing with the ease of long practice. “I have a request,” she began, with no preamble.

Seamus cocked his head to one side, and Blaise let his eyebrows rise.

“I intend to defect,” she said, bluntly.

Seamus gaped at her. Even Blaise looked stunned, although he recovered his poise within moments. “Why?” he inquired, and Pansy knew he meant ‘why tell _me_?’.

She answered the question in Finnigan’s eyes, first. It would be the hardest to say, and she wanted to get it over with quickly. “You know my father is in prison. You know he talked.”

They both nodded. It had caused quite a stir at the start of the year. Donald Parkinson was the only Death Eater captured by Ministry Aurors over the summer who had agreed to talk, in return for the safety of his wife and daughter. His defection was public knowledge. What had happened afterwards was not.

The Aurors thought they’d rescued Pansy, though they’d been too late for Philena. The truth was that Pansy had bowed her head to her mother’s murderer; taken that monster’s vows, and allowed him to burn his Mark into her skin.

Her status in Slytherin had only climbed as a result. With Draco treating her exactly the same (which was to say, as his closest friend and confidante), and a few, discreet flashes of her new Dark Mark to the right people, she was generally accepted to have disowned her father and pledged herself wholeheartedly to the cause.

She was, ironically, one of the few considered completely trustworthy by those ‘in the know’.

“The Dark Lord offered my mother a choice. For my father’s betrayal, one of us had to die. My father was out of reach, of course, but he had _us_. My mother, and me.” Seamus sucked in a sharp breath. “I tried to offer myself, but my mother Silenced me, and took my place. The Dark Lord murdered her, and then forced me to take his Mark.” She frowned down at her hands. “I made a vow in that moment. That her sacrifice would not be in vain. That I would honour her memory with every minute of the remainder of my life.”

She’d sobbed the whole story out onto Draco’s shoulder, their first night back at school. And then later, as they lay in each others’ arms within the safety of his wards, Draco had told her in hushed whispers about the his own Marking, and the task the Dark Lord had assigned him, on pain of his own mother’s death.

Not the details, of course. Narcissa’s life depended on Draco’s secrecy, and Pansy understood that only too well.

The edges of Finnigan’s eyes were tight, brittle with pain. She let him grip her hands briefly. “I am so sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t know.”

“Not many people do,” Pansy said. “I wanted it that way, and the Aurors who found me were sympathetic. They agreed to keep it out of the public eye. But thank you.” She extricated her hands from his. “That is why I need your help. Both of you,” she added, glancing at Blaise. “I have no living relatives; none that the Dark Lord will acknowledge, anyway, with my father serving a life sentence in Azkaban. If I plead sanctuary from Dumbledore, I’ll be safe. Untouchable. At least insofar as anyone else. Draco, however –”

Blaise sat back, his mouth forming a silent ‘oh’ of understanding.

“Malfoy?” Finnigan gaped at her. “ _Malfoy_ wants to defect?”

Pansy shook her head. Blaise’s face was blank now; unreadable. He knew as well as she that Draco had been Marked. “I can’t speak for him. But I do want him out. Against his will, if necessary.”

“Will it be necessary, do you think?” Blaise asked, lightly. “After all, you know him better than I.”

Pansy didn’t miss a beat. “Do I?” she retorted.

Blaise’s eyes dropped, and she allowed just a hint of a smirk to touch her lips. Blaise was bisexual, and he’d lost his virginity to Draco the previous year – in every possible way, apparently. Since then, he’d played both sides of the pitch with admirable dexterity and a lack of principles that put even the worst of the Slytherin play-boys to shame.

Draco, on the other hand, couldn’t get it up for a girl if he tried. And she knew that for a fact, unfortunately.

“But how can we help?” Seamus said, puzzled.

“Draco is carrying out a task for the Dark Lord,” Pansy explained. “A task he must succeed in, to redeem his family’s name and place of honour at his side. It is a task of such vital importance to the Dark Lord that if he fails, Narcissa Malfoy’s life is forfeit.”

Seamus stared. “That’s sick,” he said, blankly. “He’s holding Malfoy’s _mother_ hostage?”

Pansy nodded grimly. “He won’t tell me what he’s been asked to do, but he’s been wearing himself to the bone over it. Whatever it is, it’s bound to mean a significant victory for the Dark Lord, and Draco will lose any chance he had of redeeming himself in the eyes of the Ministry. He’ll be a war criminal, and the fact that he’s a minor will mean less than nothing. His future will be destroyed. He might even end up in Azkaban, or – or dead. I can’t let that happen.”

“You’re talking about thwarting the Dark Lord’s plans,” Blaise said, slowly. “That would be called treason, by some.”

“By you?” Seamus challenged, half-rising.

Pansy put out a hand to stop him, but Blaise just met Finnigan’s eyes, and then very deliberately pulled his left sleeve up to his elbow. His skin was un-Marked.

Pansy relaxed. It wasn’t a declaration one way or the other, but it was something. “I think the Headmaster already suspects him,” she said. “But he can’t, or won’t, offer him a way out, and I need someone who _can_. I need someone stubborn, who can get under Draco’s skin and _make_ him trust; someone who cares more about Draco as a person than a pawn in a fucking war.”

“But –” Seamus stared at her. “Who?”

Pansy smiled.

~*~

“So,” Seamus said, tucking his hands behind his head and gazing up at the Gryffindor-red canopy of his bed. “Pansy overheard Harry and Hermione talking, and she knows Harry is gay. She reckons he’s got a crush on Malfoy.”

Dean rolled over to stare at him. “What, _our_ Harry?” he said, incredulously. “On _Malfoy_?”

Seamus nodded. They were alone in the dormitory, and would be for some time. Ron and Harry were at Quidditch practice, and Neville was working on an extra credit project for Herbology. So Seamus could take his time, thank Merlin, because he wanted to feel his way through this conversation slowly. It was a lot to digest. He should know. He’d spent at least ten minutes after Pansy had practically shoved him out the door trying to figure out if she’d even been _serious_.

Of course, Seamus had only to think of her face when she’d told them about her mother’s death to know that she had been.

“She said Hermione said so, and everything.”

“Huh.” Dean scratched his head. “Guess it must be true, then.”

“It gets better,” Seamus assured him. “Apparently Malfoy’s gay, too.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “Yeah? I guess that explains a lot. Gin says the girls call him the Ice Prince, even in Slytherin. Apparently he doesn’t put out. Ever. They say an arranged marriage is the only way that bad-tempered git could get a girl into his bed. Apparently for more than one reason, eh?”

Seamus shrugged. “I don’t know. Don’t get me wrong, he’s always been a nasty piece of work. But if his mam really _is_ being held hostage by You-Know-Who, I can’t help thinking – well, if it were _my_ mam... I just don’t know what I’d do.”

Dean grimaced in agreement.

“Anyway,” Seamus said, “that’s why Pansy wants me to convince Harry to court Malfoy.” At Dean’s questioning look, he elaborated, “You know, put the moves on him. The whole nine yards.”

Dean stared at him. “Seam,” he said, kindly. “Is it possible your Pansy’s taken leave of her senses?”

“No, you bloody git,” Seamus snapped, affronted. “She’s desperate. And smart. Just listen, okay? It makes sense.”

Dean’s eyebrows rose, but he nodded.

Seamus explained The Plan to him (which he’d afforded capital letters on Pansy’s behalf, because any kind of plan on this scale and level of complexity deserved capitals). “Trouble is,” he finished, sighing, “I just don’t know how in the hell I’m supposed to convince Harry to do it.”

“I don’t mean to rain on your parade, mate, but how did she convince _you_?” Dean asked. “I mean, I know you like her and all – you’ve been kind of obsessed with her all year, actually, but –”

“I’m in love with her,” Seamus declared. Dean gave him an narrow look, and he sighed. “Yeah, yeah, I know. She’s a Slytherin. A Death Eater. She admitted it, right to my face. I shouldn’t trust her. Just because I slept with her that one time, it shouldn’t mean so much. But it _does_ , Dean. I want to hold her, and kiss her, and protect her from You-Know-Who. I want to break through that icy Slytherin façade, and see the girl who laughed when we fell out of bed in the middle of some pretty amazing acrobatics, if I do say so myself. I want to make her smile every day for the rest of our lives. I want – I want _babies_ with the girl.”

Dean snorted. “All right. You’re gone on her, I get it. Even though she flatly refuses to go out with you.”

“But that’s the beauty of it,” Seamus said. “If I do this, she lifts her no-dating ban.”

“Ohhh,” Dean breathed. “She’s really got you by the balls, huh? Knows exactly which carrot to dangle.”

“Fuck off,” Seamus said, mildly. He didn’t argue with his friend’s assessment; it was true, after all. He sighed. “I just wish it wasn’t something so damned hard. I mean, even I can see Malfoy’s appeal, and I’m not bent, and I’m taken. So that’s a point in our favour. But Harry and Malfoy are sworn enemies. How do we convince him to even listen to Pansy’s proposition, let alone take it seriously?”

Dean thought for a moment. “I could try to get Ginny on our side,” he offered. “She might help us with Ron and Hermione. You know Harry will hear them out, at least.”

“Yeah, but will he agree to help us?”

Dean shrugged. “I don’t know. It is kind of a big deal, Seam. But, then, it’s Harry. I think he’ll at least consider anything that might help end the war before it begins. And you’re forgetting something else. Something pretty major.”

Seamus sat up, intrigued by the tone of his friend’s voice. “What?”

“He’s got that saving-people thing, remember? It’s like a compulsion. He can’t help himself. And if You-Know-Who really is holding Malfoy’s mum as collateral, that’s bound to tug at the old heartstrings, what with Harry’s parents and all. If we can just – just try to change his perspective, make him see Malfoy as a victim, someone who needs rescuing, that’ll hook him for sure.”

Seamus felt his face break into a wild grin. “Dean, that’s perfect! That’s bloody _perfect_! I could kiss you!”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Well, don’t. I wouldn’t want to explain to Ginny why my lips are all swollen, especially when she hasn’t been near them in almost twenty-four hours.” He paused. “Speaking of –”

Seamus waved a hand at him. “Go, go. Snog your girlfriend, you horny devil. Just don’t forget to tell her about The Plan! I’ll want you both with me when we talk to Ron and Hermione. We have to get them on board before we even _think_ about approaching Harry.”

“Absolutely,” Dean said, and gave him a jaunty wave as he headed out the door.

~*~

Pansy took a deep, steadying breath, and let it out slowly. Then she knocked. Blaise’s voice called for her to enter, and she slipped through the door, closing it quietly behind her.

Blaise was sprawled out comfortably on the sofa by the fire. “Pansy, my love,” he said, waving a lazy hand at the armchair opposite him. “Won’t you sit down?”

She glanced instinctively at the doors to the boys’ bedrooms.

“We’re alone,” he assured her. “I had Theo take Vince to the kitchens for an after-dinner snack, and Draco’s never in at this time. Gregory’s with him, of course.”

Pansy nodded, perching on the edge of the armchair. The den was small but cosy, the fire providing both light and the kind of warmth that settled into your bones. It was decorated in subtle tones of green and silver, but there were hints of Draco’s influence as well. A blue-and-green glass statue of a dragon on the mantelpiece, a black velvet hanging near the door with red, silver and gold threads, depicting a lovely sunset in Singapore.

Still, she couldn’t feel completely comfortable. Not alone, with the most lecherous Slytherin in the school as her sole companion.

“So,” Blaise drawled, a small smile playing on his lips, and Pansy knew he’d picked up on her discomfort. She made an effort to relax back into the chair, and his smile widened. “ _So_ , my dear Pansy. What role, exactly, am I to play in your little drama? You explained Finnigan’s, and very interesting it was, too. I’m not entirely convinced it’ll work, of course. Potter _is_ a Gryffindor, after all, and thus more than likely to bollocks it all up. But on the off-chance it does go exactly to plan –”

“I need you to fall in with Draco,” Pansy explained. “Accept Potter into our inner circle, when the time comes. The others will follow your lead. Vince and Greg have been loyal to Draco since before they could talk, but Theo, and the girls… You know Draco is losing his influence. He just won’t have the power to keep them at his side, not without our support.”

Blaise blinked slowly. “You want us to defect with you. All of us.”

“It’s the only way to keep him safe,” Pansy agreed. “It’s the only way we’ll _all_ be safe, if we present a united front to any Slytherins who might be inclined to punish us for our betrayal. The seventh years, in particular. I think we can get most of the younger years to turn with us. There aren’t that many among them who have parents in the Dark Lord’s inner circle, and even fewer who are so invested in his cause that they won’t take a way out when they see it. Especially once we show them that we have Harry Potter’s loyalty and protection.”

Blaise frowned. “You really believe Potter is the ‘Chosen One’? That he can defeat the most powerful Dark Lord in centuries?”

“I think the Dark Lord is insane,” Pansy said, matter-of-factly. “He commands loyalty with terror, demanding proud purebloods bow and kiss his feet, while that rat stands at his side, whimpering and mewling. He killed my mother in front of me, and then expected me to rejoice in my servitude. He puts far too much stock in the Dark Mark and its power over his followers, Blaise. No true Slytherin would be so stupid. He should have killed me, too.”

“You believe his arrogance will be his downfall,” Blaise mused. “He will lose, in the end, whether or not Potter is the Chosen One.”

“Exactly,” Pansy said. “It doesn’t really matter if Potter is the one to strike the final blow. What matters is that Potter is the shining beacon of hope for the wizarding world; the one everyone expects will be our saviour. If he takes us under his protection, vouches for us, we’ll be vindicated in the eyes of the wizarding world forever.”

Blaise regarded her thoughtfully. “You’re taking a huge risk,” he said. “If I were to take your plan to the Dark Lord, reveal your betrayal, I could win a place for myself and my mother by his side.”

“The losing side,” Pansy said calmly, while her heart beat a sharp staccato against her ribcage. “You’re smarter than that, Blaise.” She smiled, using her teeth, edging it with a deliberate hint of danger. “Besides, I’m one of his Marked. Your mother has been unfortunately... _evasive_ when it comes to choosing your allegiance. It would be as great a risk for you as for me.”

“You have more to lose than I do,” Blaise countered.

Pansy just gave him a small, indifferent shrug. That was a matter of perspective. Her mother was dead, but she _did_ have Draco. And she would suffer a thousand _Crucios_ to ensure his safety.

“Very well,” Blaise said, after a moment. “If you succeed, I will support Draco, and pledge myself to Potter with him, when the time comes. But I want a promise in return, darling.”

Pansy stilled. She had been expecting this, but – well, anything else had just been wishful thinking. “Yes?”

“You were very careful with your wording, back in the classroom. Your pet Finnigan’s a fool; he’s so besotted he didn’t even notice. Or perhaps he’s just that stupid.” Pansy’s lips tightened, but she didn’t respond. “I, on the other hand, most certainly did. I want your _guarantee_ of at least one date with me, Pansy. With everything that entails.” His eyes swept down her body and then up again, meeting her eyes with a smirk. “Or no deal.”

Pansy gritted her teeth, but she lifted her chin and stared him down. “You help us, and you’ll get what you want, Zabini,” she promised. “One date. One night, with everything that entails. My word as a Slytherin.”


	3. Chapter 3

**CHAPTER ONE  
**

**SETTING THE STAGE**

Part Two

As it happened, Seamus didn’t get the opportunity to speak with Ron or Hermione alone for two days. By the time he cornered them in the Gryffindor common room, he was practically vibrating with anxiety.

The animosity between the Golden Trio and the Prince of Slytherin had gained almost legendary status at Hogwarts. There was even a rumour that Hermione had _slapped_ Malfoy once, in third year.

Convincing Ginny had been hard enough, and she didn’t have the personal history with Malfoy. Her history with Lucius Malfoy, however, was fraught, to say the least. But Seamus had pointed out that Lucius was in Azkaban now, and that his son had been just as much in the dark about the whole diary plot as anyone else. And Dean had pointed out that he would never hear the end of it if Seamus lost his chance at the girl he loved, and then snogged Ginny until she gave in.

Unfortunately, kissing Ron into capitulation wasn’t an option. Although, Seamus mused, if it was _Hermione_ doing the kissing… But, no. They were hopelessly oblivious to each other’s feelings. Anyway, Hermione was just as taken aback by The Plan as Ron.

“You say she got the idea from _The Taming of the Shrew_?” she said, slowly.

Ron’s mouth was flapping uselessly. “Gin,” he squeaked. “Ginny, what –?”

Ginny raised an eyebrow. She was perched on the arm of the sofa closest to the fire, one leg crossed over the other and swinging idly. “I know,” she said sympathetically. “I had the same reaction, at first.”

Ron goggled at his sister in horrified betrayal. “ _You_? You –!”

Ginny rolled her eyes.

“Ingenious, I suppose, if it’s true,” Hermione pondered. “Also vaguely conceited, if she’s casting herself as the young ingénue. But I find it highly improbable that a pureblood like Pansy Parkinson would have even a _passing_ familiarity with the works of a Muggle playwright from the seventeenth century.”

Seamus frowned. “I get why you don’t trust her, but you don’t know her like I do. She’s taking a NEWT in Muggle Studies, for her mam. She’s proud of her pureblood heritage, and she’s a loyal Slytherin; that will never change. But she’s also kind, and sweet, and she hates You-Know-Who as much as we do. And she really, _really_ cares about Malfoy. She won’t defect until he’s safe, too.”

Hermione pursed her lips. “That’s interesting. If it’s true.”

“It is,” Seamus insisted, feeling his hackles rise. “Every word!”

Dean chuckled, laying a hand on his arm. “Down, boy.” He looked at Hermione. “You’re not going to reason him out of this. He’s arse over tits for the girl.”

Outraged, Seamus cried, “Don’t you talk about her like that!” He tackled his best friend around the waist, the way Dean himself had taught him during their occasional game of Muggle football on the Quidditch pitch. Ginny had to skip lightly out of the way as they rolled off the sofa, wrestling each other for dominance across the floor. “Sorry!” Seamus gasped (good manners and a deep respect for witches drilled into him from birth), and then yelped as his distraction caused him to knock his elbow against the coffee table.

Dean shoved him over, kneeing him in the stomach in the process. Winded, Seamus could only gasp for air as Dean leapt on top of him and slammed his shoulders into the floor, grinning. “Yield?”

“Never!” Seamus declared. He hooked a leg over Dean’s and flipped them, pushing his forearm into Dean’s throat. “You take it back right now!”

“You mean you _aren’t_ arse over tits for her?” Dean asked innocently, dark eyes laughing up at him. Seamus jerked his arm a little harder against Dean’s throat, and he choked. “All right, all right! Head over heels! That better?”

“Much,” Seamus said, severely.

“Would you two quit it already?” Ron said, irritably. “This is Serious Business!” He turned to his sister imploringly. “Gin, you can’t be serious. You’re not really supporting this. It’s insane! Tell me you think it’s insane!”

Ginny looked contemplative, shrugging. “You know what it would mean, if Malfoy defected.”

“No,” Ron moaned. “Oh Merlin, I know, but come on! Harry and Malfoy, _dating_?”

There was a high-pitched squeak from the common room entrance. Seamus froze. _No_ , he thought desperately. _No, no, no_. Not yet. It was too soon. They hadn’t made a game plan yet. He couldn’t even be sure they’d convinced Ron and Hermione, and there was no way Harry would listen if _they_ weren’t on board –

The room was deathly silent.

All eyes turned.

Harry stared at them all suspiciously, one leg still outside the portrait hole. A good escape route, if he needed to high-tail it back in the other direction. “You were saying?” he said, in a calm, even tone that set the alarm bells ringing violently in Seamus’ head.

He scrambled up from the floor, holding out his hands pleadingly. “Now – now, Harry, don’t get upset,” he said, thick Irish brogue worsening in his panic. “Just come and sit down. We need to talk to you.”

Harry scowled at him. “I am not dating Malfoy. I don’t know what Hermione’s been saying, but –”

“It’s okay, Harry,” Hermione interrupted. “That’s not what this is about. Really. Come and sit down. Let them explain.”

Harry frowned at her, but to Seamus’ endless and undying gratitude, he did.

~*~

“Let me get this straight,” Harry said, crossing his arms over his chest. Seamus looked like a nervous, hopeful puppy, sitting on the very edge of his seat. “You want me to make Malfoy believe I’m in _love_ with him?”

“Exactly!” Seamus said, relieved. “He’s scared, Harry, just like Pansy. But he won’t talk to anyone. Not Pansy, not even Snape.” Harry nodded; he remembered Snape’s desperate, failed attempt to get Malfoy to talk on the night of Slughorn’s Christmas party. “You-Know-Who’s got his mother, and he’s threatened to kill her if Malfoy doesn’t do exactly as he’s told. He’s got no way out, don’t you see?”

Harry frowned. “There’s always another way. It’s no excuse for what he did to Ron. Or Katie.”

“Of course not,” Hermione assured him. “They’re not trying to make excuses for him.” She glanced at Seamus, frowning. “Are you?”

“No!” Seamus said.

“We agree with you, mate, believe me,” Dean said. “But just try to see it from Malfoy’s perspective, for a minute. If you could save your mother from certain death, by carrying out _one task_ –”

Harry flinched.

“That’s not fair,” Hermione said, bristling. “Voldemort killed Harry’s parents.” The other boys cringed away from the name, and even Ginny went a bit pale. Hermione flapped her hand at them. “Sorry,” she said, not sounding very sorry at all. She looked at Harry. “It’s different for you, of course. But… I think I might actually understand a little of how Malfoy feels. My parents can’t protect themselves. They’re relying on me to keep them safe, and I –” Her voice broke.

Harry pulled her into a hug. “Sorry,” he muttered, into the cloud of bushy hair. He could feel guilt clawing up his throat.

One Horcrux destroyed. That was it. He’d failed to stop Pettigrew returning to his master, failed to stop Voldemort coming back, failed Cedric, been the direct _cause_ of Sirius’ death, dragged his friends again and again into life-threatening situations...

He’d even killed a man. And for what?

Voldemort was stronger than ever, his darkness spreading like a cancer over wizarding Britain. The attacks were becoming bolder and more devastating; people were dying, families ripped apart. And all the while Draco Malfoy was creeping around the castle on a secret mission that could, if he succeeded, mean a war that would tear the world apart.

A shiver went down his spine.

Malfoy really was a Death Eater. He really _was_ working on a task for Voldemort, plotting against the only real home Harry had ever had. He’d had months of preparation; months to put whatever nefarious scheme Voldemort was planning into action.

“We have to stop him,” he said.

“Yes,” Hermione said. She pulled back to meet his eyes. “I think this could be how, Harry.”

Harry sighed. “We are talking about Malfoy here, right? He’s been itching to follow in daddy’s footsteps since the day he was born. We’ve hated each other since first year. How’s me pretending to be in love with him supposed to convince him to defect? He’ll laugh in my face!”

“Pansy reckons he won’t,” Seamus said, leaning forward earnestly. “Not if you make it real. A proper courtship, like in the play. Maybe he’s thought about defection before, but she reckons he hasn’t – not seriously, anyway. He can’t. There’s no one he can trust to protect his mother. But if you convince him you’re really, _truly_ in love with him, he might go for it, to save her.”

Harry frowned. “Wouldn’t it be better to just talk to him up front, then? Tell him we know about his mother, and offer him the Order’s protection?”

“No,” Ginny interjected. “You’re thinking like a Gryffindor, Harry. He’s a Slytherin. He has no reason to trust any of us. What with the way he and his father have treated us over the years, you’d have more than enough reason to renege on any deal with him. He’d expect it, even. But if you were in _love_ with him, that might be the only thing he could trust. The ultimate stake, in him. If you can make him believe it, that is.”

That made a disturbing amount of sense, unfortunately. “Seems like an awful lot of trouble to go to for one bint,” Harry muttered.

Seamus scowled, opening his mouth to retort. Ron who beat him to it. “I don’t know about you, mate, but personally, I’d feel a whole lot better with Malfoy out of the picture.”

Harry raised an eyebrow at him.

Ron pulled a face. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get me wrong. I hate this plan, and if I have to see you holding hands with him, I’ll probably puke. But if Parkinson’s on our side, you might actually stand half a chance. And if you _did_ succeed, we’d be striking You-Know-Who a huge blow. Think about it. Whatever Malfoy’s up to must be _really_ big, and really bad, or You-Know-Who wouldn’t have to hold his mum over him, right?”

“Right,” Harry said, slowly.

“The Room of Requirement, Harry,” Hermione said, softly. “This is your way inside.” His eyes snapped to hers, and she smiled at him self-deprecatingly. “I wouldn’t blame you if you said I told you so.”

He shook his head. He loved her far too much to ever hold a grudge. She was the girl who had saved his life, and Ron’s, more times than he could count. The girl who had found him after Sirius died, tucked away behind one of the sofas in the Gryffindor common room, and held him all through the night, rocking him through the tears and the painful, throat-rending sobs, soothing away the nightmares.

The girl who hadn’t batted an eyelash when he came out to her, but immediately started planning the best way for them to tell Ron. Together.

“And it won’t just be Malfoy, if you succeed,” Ginny said. “His family are just about the proudest purebloods in wizarding Britain – which pretty much means they’re horrible, bigoted snobs – but it does mean we can predict with near certainty what they’ll do. If Draco defects, his parents will defect with him. Family comes first for purebloods, always. Which means You-Know-Who will lose one of his main supporters.”

“Not to mention once Pansy and Malfoy defect, it could pave the way for the rest of the Slytherins,” Seamus added.

Hermione’s eyes lit up. “Of course! That really would be a serious blow, Harry! Think of how many Death Eaters have children here! If we could turn _them_ as well –”

“All right, all right!” Harry held up his hands in mock surrender. “I’m convinced already. Consider Malfoy seduced.”

Ron promptly turned green. “Ew, mate! Don’t even think things like that!”

Everyone laughed, and began calling out ideas for Malfoy’s ‘seduction’. Harry thought Hermione was the only one who realised he’d been completely serious.

~*~

She pulled him aside as everyone else left for dinner. “You know this could be a trap,” she said, bluntly.

Harry’s stomach sank. “What?”

Hermione gave him a look. “Parkinson admitted to being a Death Eater. We have only her word for it that she took the Mark under duress. I didn’t want to believe that Voldemort would be enlisting people our age, but... he’s got Death Eaters _inside_ Hogwarts. Who knows who else, or what Malfoy is up to?”

“So it could be a trap,” Harry sighed.

“Exactly,” Hermione said. “You need to be careful. Parkinson’s story sounds credible, second-hand, but Seamus isn’t exactly objective when it comes to her. If Malfoy’s in on it, and he gains your trust…”

“Yeah,” Harry said, wincing. He was all too familiar with betrayal. “Maybe we should go to Dumbledore with this.”

“Maybe,” Hermione said, but she looked hesitant. “And I’d normally be the first to say we should. But you’ve been telling him about Malfoy all year, and Dumbledore’s done _nothing_. Even though Katie was in St Mungo’s for six months, and Ron almost _died_. I just can’t help thinking, if you hadn’t remembered about the bezoar...” She bit her lip. “I know it wasn’t Dumbledore’s fault. We didn’t believe you, either. But we can’t let something worse happen, now we know. We just _can’t_.”

Harry regarded her affectionately. “You really care about him, huh?”

“Oh, and you don’t?” Hermione retorted, but she couldn’t quite meet his eyes.

Harry grinned. “Not like you, I don’t,” he said. “At least, you’d better _hope_ not.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and shoved at his shoulder, smiling. “Well, you can’t have him.”

“No, _I_ get Malfoy.”

Hermione was surprised into a laugh. “Lucky you,” she grinned. “Listen, I borrowed Parvarti’s copy of the complete works of William Shakespeare. _The Taming of the Shrew_ is in there. I’ve re-read it just to refresh my memory. You should too.”

Harry grimaced. “You couldn’t give me the cliff notes, I suppose?”

Hermione shook her head. “It’s probably not relevant, but you should be prepared. We’re dealing with _Slytherins_ , Harry. Death Eaters. They’re smart, and dangerous. If we’re going to do this without Dumbledore’s help, we’ve got to be careful.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, you're right. About Dumbledore, too, probably. I was stupid last year, and impulsive. I put you all in danger. Sirius... Sirius died because of me.”

“Oh Harry, _no_ ,” Hermione said, upset. “That wasn’t –”

“If I want to be treated like an adult, then I have to take responsibility for my actions,” Harry interrupted. “All my actions, good and bad. And if I really am the Chosen One – the one who has to kill Voldemort – then I shouldn’t be kept out of the loop like I’m a kid. I’m not, anymore. I haven’t been for a long time.”

“Dumbledore told you about the Horcruxes,” Hermione said, uncertainly.

“Only after I got Slughorn’s memory,” he countered. “Even though he’s known about them for years. Maybe not definitely, but he knew, Hermione. All he wanted was confirmation from Slughorn, and I don’t even think he even really needed that. He just wanted _me_ to see it.” He shook his head. “You know I love Dumbledore. But he has never been completely honest with me, and I have to accept that this year is no different. He’s still feeding me information when and how he thinks I need it, never mind the consequences. And there are always consequences. We’ve seen that time and again. I don’t doubt his good intentions, but –”

“– the road to hell,” Hermione agreed, sighing.

“I don’t want to be caught with my pants down again, Hermione,” Harry said. “Not ever again.”

She looked at him solemnly. “So you’re going through with Pansy’s Plan?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

~*~

Harry lay on his stomach on Ron’s bed, kicking his feet in the air as he struggled through _The Taming of the Shrew._ “When I signed up for this, I didn’t know there would be homework,” he said, morosely. “How does Hermione read this stuff for fun?”

Ron glanced up from his Charms essay, brow creased. “You’re asking me? I don’t think I’ll ever understand that girl.”

Harry snorted. “S’pose its progress you’ve noticed she’s a girl, at least,” he muttered, turning his attention back to Shakespeare.

“Huh?” Ron said.

Harry just waved him off absently. He thought he understood the gist of the play now. Or at least, he’d identified the major characters and their motivations. Anything more complex than that, Hermione would have to explain to him.

He definitely could not comprehend why this play, of all things, had been Parkinson’s inspiration. Malfoy and Parkinson had always seemed so close. In fact, until Seamus had dropped his little bombshell on him ( _Malfoy’s gay_ , he thought for the hundredth time, Malfoy’s _gay_ , and still he couldn’t quite wrap his head around it), Harry had just kind of assumed that Malfoy and his most devoted sycophant were dating, if not lovers.

Still, even if they were just friends, it was incomprehensible to him why Parkinson would _want_ Malfoy to be treated like Katherina. Slytherins were cold, but not that cold, surely? As for convincing Malfoy he was in ‘love’ with him, Harry thought it was far more likely to have the opposite effect entirely.

He didn’t know much about seducing someone, but he thought teasing, and laughter, and fun was probably a good start. Flowers and chocolate and sweet, lazy kisses by the lake.

Okay, so Harry was self-aware enough to admit that that was just the fancy of an overactive imagination. Justin was right. He was a boy, and he was attracted to boys. Not girls. But... he just couldn’t see any other feasible way of making this insane plan of Parkinson’s _work._ Surely there had to be some sort of romance involved in a courtship?

He slid his glasses off, pinching the bridge of his nose wearily. This was ridiculous. They’d been arch nemeses for _six years_. Enemies. And not the schoolboy-grudge kind of enemies, but the real, your father’s master killed my parents, your _aunt_ killed my godfather, kind. Sex, romance... it was ludicrous to think any of it would be enough.

He was going to see through Harry in a nanosecond.

“Harry?” Ron said.

“Yeah, mate?” he sighed, trying to work out how much of a fallout there would be, exactly, when this whole thing went up in flames.

“D’you reckon you can put on a good enough act to fool Malfoy? I mean, pretending to like him, and all?”

Harry looked up. “I _do_ like him,” he said, surprised at how easy that was to admit. But then, maybe that was the key. Parkinson wouldn’t have come up with this plan if she didn’t think he could do it. Unless she intended Malfoy to see right through him, for some nefarious, as-yet-unknown purpose.

Merlin, his head hurt.

Ron was spluttering indignantly. “But, Harry! He’s a git! An _evil_ git!”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Harry said, dryly. “I just mean I fancy him, a bit.”

“You _fancy_ him?” Ron squeaked. “Hermione was _right_?” He slapped his forehead with the palm of his hand. “What am I saying? Of _course_ Hermione was right!”

“I fancy him physically,” Harry corrected him. “It's not a crush. Listen, Ron, are you going to be able to handle this? Because Malfoy knows me. I’m not going to be able to bluff my way through this. If he’s going to believe I’m in love with him, it has to be real, like Seamus said. I’ve got to court him seriously; forget everything that makes him an arse and just focus on – well, what I do fancy about him.”

 _Like his arse_ , he thought, but didn’t say aloud. No need to give Ron an aneurysm. Yet.

Ron studied him, frowning. “I meant what I said before. I don’t like it, but if we take Malfoy off the board, hopefully it’ll’ve been worth it. And I trust your judgment. I’m behind you one hundred percent, I promise. Just be careful, all right?”

“Now you sound like Hermione,” Harry complained, rolling off the bed. He went to put Parvarti’s book away in his drawer, just as the door burst open. Seamus, Dean and Neville piled into the room, laughing and horsing around. Seamus, in particular, seemed to be in a very good mood, pumping Harry’s hand and thanking him profusely at random intervals as they all got ready for bed.

Harry let him gloat. He’d made his decision.

Admittedly, he’d been hopeless at it with Cho, and Justin hadn’t been interested in much beyond a little foreplay before the main event (which had been fine, at the time; Harry had just needed someone to hold him in the aftermath of his godfather’s death, and Justin had been willing and eager to provide what he needed. At least, until the Hufflepuff decided he was bored, and dumped him in search of newer pastures.)

Harry flinched away from the memory. He’d given his virginity to the other boy, and had it thrown in his face. Even the thought of it still had the power to make his cheeks burn.

But at least he could draw on that experience now. He knew what unrequited love felt like, and he was, if not experienced, then at least not a complete novice at sex. Having Malfoy in his bed wouldn’t be a hardship. Of course, it might very well be a hardship getting him there, but that was where the romancing came into it.

Malfoy didn’t stand a chance.

He hoped.

~*~

Malfoy wasn’t at breakfast the next morning, and he rushed into their first class of the day with mere seconds to spare. Harry watched, frowning, as he slid into the empty seat beside Parkinson. He’d been following Malfoy all year, watching what he did, where he went, who he spoke to.

When was the last time he’d just _looked_ at him?

He was too skinny, too pale, with a distinct greyish tinge to his skin. His hands trembled when he bent to retrieve his textbook from his bag.

Whatever Voldemort had him doing, it was taking over his life. Hurting him. Changing him. The Draco Malfoy of just a few short months ago would never have missed a meal, let alone come late to a class with _bags_ under his eyes.

“We will be duelling today,” Professor Snape announced, sweeping into the room in his usual abrupt fashion, black cloak billowing out behind him. “You will practice the five offensive spells and their appropriate defences from your homework on each other, whether that is the counter-spell, deflection, or a shield. I expect you have all also studied the appropriate measures to take if by chance you are incompetent enough to let one of your opponent’s spells through. If you have not, I will not be correcting your mistake.”

Hermione’s hand was in the air instantly. “But, sir –!”

He fixed her with a look of contempt. “Miss Granger, I presume _you_ , at least, have done the homework, thoroughly?”

“Yes, sir, but –”

“Then you have nothing to worry about. I should not have to explain to you, Miss Granger, that you cannot rely on anyone else to correct any stupid blunders you make during battle. Not even the great Harry Potter.” Snape sneered in his direction, and Harry only just managed not to roll his eyes. “In battle, you must rely on your own knowledge, your own skills, your own wits to survive.”

“I happen to think teamwork is pretty important, too,” Ron said, loudly.

Harry nodded. There was no way he’d be here today if it weren’t for Ron and Hermione, and Luna and Neville and Ginny, and Sirius and Remus. Even Snape, as much as he hated to admit it. Sometimes the only option _was_ to rely on others.

“Five points from Gryffindor for speaking out of turn!” Snape said. “This is not an open forum, Mr Weasley. And please do try not to be so naïve. Every man fights and dies alone, in the end.” He looked around at the class. “Everyone will pair up with someone from another House.”

There was a chorus of groans; the class consisted mainly of Slytherins and Gryffindors, and Harry thought Snape took a perverse pleasure in setting them against each other.

It suited him now, though.

As soon as Snape gestured, Harry was up and moving to the front of the class. He thumped his book-bag down on the desk, and Parkinson gave him a small, reserved smile.

Malfoy looked up from his hands, scowling. “What do _you_ want?”

“A partner?” Harry replied sweetly.

“A duelling partner,” Malfoy said, already losing interest.

Harry smiled. “That too.”

Malfoy’s head jerked up again, eyes narrowing as he examined Harry’s face. He opened his mouth, and then shut it again, looking away.

Harry felt strangely let down. He’d expected a scathing retort, and the lack of one was almost… disappointing.

Snape had them push the desks against the walls, leaving a large open space in the centre for duelling. Ron managed to pair up with Susan Bones, one of the few Hufflepuffs in the class, and when Harry looked around, Hermione was standing with Parkinson. Harry gave her an amused look; it wouldn’t surprise him in the least if she tried to interrogate the other girl under the guise of duelling.

“We will begin with a short demonstration,” Snape said. “As your previous Defence Against the Dark Arts education has been woefully inadequate, I will assume that many of you have never seen a formal duel. Those who attended the duelling club in your second year may remember a little, of course. Particularly the infamous duel between Mr Malfoy and Mr Potter.”

There were some whispers immediately, but since over half the class were either Gryffindors or had been taught by Harry last year in DA, Snape failed to get the reaction he’d obviously been hoping for. Still, reminding everyone that he was a Parselmouth was a low blow, Harry thought, glaring at him.

“I think,” said Snape, meeting his eyes maliciously, “that as Mr Potter has had some limited experience in this area, he and his partner will be the ones to give us the demonstration this morning.” He gave a short, ironic bow, gesturing at the centre of the room. “The stage is yours, Mr Potter.”

Harry suppressed the urge to roll his eyes again. Being made a spectacle of was not exactly new. He took up position in the middle of the room, and Parkinson nudged Malfoy, who looked up in confusion.

“What?”

“I’m waiting, Malfoy,” Harry said.

Snape made a sudden, strangled noise.

Harry spared the professor a glance. He was surprised to see real concern in the dark eyes. Snape had always been unfairly biased towards the Slytherins, and Malfoy in particular, but clearly the bond went deeper than he’d realised.

Of course, it didn’t prove anything either way as to Snape’s true loyalties, but it might very well have an impact on what Harry was trying to do. Snape was unlikely to want the Chosen One courting his pet Death Eater, after all. Then again, it wasn’t as if Snape was in Malfoy’s confidence. Perhaps it wouldn’t matter?

Malfoy stared around the room, obviously wondering how he’d managed to get stuck partnered with Harry Potter. Parkinson nudged him again, and he scowled. “Fine,” he muttered.

He took up position opposite Harry, his scowl deepening as Harry smiled. They raised their wands and bowed, and then turned to take the customary steps away from each other. Harry whirled after only two steps. He remembered Malfoy’s cheat from second year, and he knew Malfoy remembered it too, which meant he would be expecting the pre-emptive strike.

Malfoy turned on his heel just as Harry did, and his first hex was non-verbal. Harry’s only clue was the flash of pale blue light, and he found himself on the floor before he could even raise his wand.

“That wasn’t fair!”

“Mr Weasley!” Snape snapped. “I tire of your constant whining! This is not a game! If Mr Potter still cannot counter non-verbal spells, then it is on his own head. Mr Malfoy is entirely within his rights to use the spells non-verbally. It has been impressed upon you by all of your professors this year the importance of the element of surprise in combat.”

“But – but they cheated,” Parvarti said. “They turned too soon.”

“There are no cheats, even in formal duelling,” Snape said, dismissively.

Harry stopped listening. He figured Snape would just go on about _expecting the unexpected_ and _relying on your wits_ , and he’d heard it all before. Right now, he had Malfoy to take care of.

He rolled to his feet, surprised that Malfoy hadn’t taken advantage of his lapse to end the duel. But Malfoy was just watching him, looking a little lost, and Harry almost felt guilty for swinging his wand down in an arch and thinking as hard as he could, _Duco_! It was similar to the Confundus Charm, in that it disoriented the victim, so the only chance to stop it was before it hit. Afterwards, the victim would be unable to think straight enough for a _Finite_.

But Malfoy was quick, even as tired as he was. A shield deflected Harry’s hex, and Harry had to dive to the side to avoid it. Malfoy flung another hex at him, this one without a flash of light. One of the three invisible spells in their homework that week.

Harry rolled, throwing up _Protego Totalum_. Malfoy’s hex made the shield dissipate, and Harry retaliated with a Cross-Eyed Jinx. But Malfoy had already sent another his way; this one with a bright pink trail. Harry recognised it as the Sleeping Curse. He didn’t quite manage the incantation for the counter-curse before it hit him, grazing his arm.

He felt his eyelids growing heavy, limbs relaxing against his will. Malfoy deflected Harry’s jinx and walked towards him, not even bothering with a shield. “ _Incarcerous_.”

It wasn’t one of the spells in their homework this week, but of course Harry knew it. He struggled against the fog of sleep, waiting until Malfoy was standing over him before he muttered in quick succession, “ _Finite_. _Diffindo_.” The Sleeping Curse lifted, the ropes binding him fell apart. He yelled, “ _Expelliarmus_!”

Malfoy staggered back a couple of steps, but he managed to keep hold of his wand. A small part of Harry’s mind was impressed. Not many people could withstand his signature spell. He considered which of a half a dozen spells to use next. The Jelly-Legs Jinx, perhaps, or _Rictusempra_ , or _Levicorpus_. But they all had the potential to humiliate as well as distract, and he discarded them as soon as he thought of them.

Instead, he used Malfoy’s first hex, from the homework. He couldn’t quite manage it non-verbally, but he said it under his breath, three times. Malfoy caught the first two with the counter-spell, but the third one got through, and he was flung off his feet.

Harry was on him immediately, straddling his waist. He used his weight to force him flat, vaguely disturbed by how easy that was. Malfoy had always been thin, but this was just ridiculous. He bent close, wand digging into Malfoy’s neck. “I can protect you,” he breathed, lips just barely touching the curve of Malfoy’s ear.

Malfoy froze, his face whitening. “W-what?” he whispered.

“You heard me,” Harry said. He stood, and held out a hand.

Malfoy stared blankly at it for a moment, and then raised his eyes to Harry’s. Whatever he saw there made him flinch, and he rolled to his feet without Harry’s assistance. He didn’t look at anyone; just moved silently to the other side of the room, collapsing into a chair.

Snape glared at Harry, probably just on principle, and had the rest of the class begin their own duels. He didn’t press Malfoy to continue practicing, so Harry joined Neville and Ernie Macmillan for the remainder of the lesson.

Malfoy’s eyes were on him the entire time.


	4. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER TWO  
**

**THE WAY TO A MAN'S HEART  
**

_Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you,_  
 _won’t you join the dance?_  
~ Lewis Carroll

Part One

Harry kicked his heels on the stone bench in the west courtyard, squinting against the glare of the afternoon sun. Ron was sprawled out along the edge of the fountain opposite him, his freckled face tilted up into the spray of water.

Hermione was the only one on her feet, pacing a tight circle between them, her eyes bright with excitement. “Did you know Pansy’s taking _seven_ NEWTS, just like me?” she said. “I didn’t realise how much we have in common! Of course, one of her NEWTs is Divination, which is – well.” Ron made a stifled noise, and Harry carefully didn’t look over at him, fighting his own grin. “But Seamus was right – she’s taking Muggle Studies, and I can’t help but admire that. Did you know she’s the only Slytherin in the entire NEWT-level class? Seventh years included.”

She was looking at Harry expectantly, and he blinked at her. “Okay,” he said slowly, not exactly sure what she wanted from him.

“I think it means she may really have had a complete change of heart,” Hermione said. “She didn’t call me a Mudblood once!”

“I should bloody well hope not!” Ron said, sitting bolt upright in his indignation.

“Ron’s right,” Harry agreed. “That’s not exactly a ringing endorsement.”

“I know, I know,” Hermione said. “But it was her whole attitude. She treated me with _respect_.” She sighed at their blank faces. “Neither of you understand what it’s like, being Muggleborn. I know the Slytherins consider you a blood traitor, Ron, but you’re still a pureblood. And Harry, you’re the Boy-Who-Lived. And a half-blood. That gives you a certain status in the eyes of the wizarding world. But I have to constantly _earn_ respect. Someone like Pansy would never usually give me the time of day.”

“Give you the time of day?” Ron echoed, bewildered. “Hermione, you do know the Tempus Charm, don’t you?”

Hermione met Harry’s eyes, smiling. “Of course I do,” she said, patiently. “The point is, I’m starting to think that we can trust her.”

Ron frowned. “Is that why you’re calling her Pansy all of a sudden?”

“Why not?” Hermione shrugged. “She said I could. She’s really quite nice, you know, when she’s away from Malfoy and his crowd.”

Ron sniffed. “Fine,” he muttered. “Just as long as you don’t turn gay on me, too.”

Hermione’s head snapped around. “And what is it to _you_ if I do, Ronald?”

Ron gaped at her. “I – I -”

“That’s what I thought,” she said, and turned away from him, the full, determined force of her gaze falling on Harry. He tried not to squirm under it. “What was it you said, Harry? When you whispered in Malfoy’s ear this morning?”

“Just that I could offer him protection,” Harry said. “Why?”

“Oh, he just looked so shocked, that’s all. I couldn’t think what you might have said to him. Did you read _The Taming of the Shrew_?”

“Yeah,” Harry grimaced. “Well, I mean, I tried. I’m supposed to be Petruchio, right? And Malfoy’s the shrew?” Hermione nodded, looking pleased, and Harry sighed. “I was afraid of that. I can’t do it, Hermione. At least, not like that. I don’t care what Parkinson wants; not even Malfoy deserves to be tortured.”

Hermione looked appalled. “Oh Harry, _no_ ,” she said. “Of course not. I hope you know I would never endorse anything like that. I know we pushed this on you – well, Seamus pushed it on us all – but I think we have the opportunity to do something _real_ for the war effort here. I don’t think you should give up just yet.”

Harry sighed. “I haven’t. I just don’t think the ends really justify the means. If I’m going to do this, it’s going to be _my_ way.”

She smiled at him. “I’m not arguing with you, Harry. I just don’t think Pansy pointed us at _The Taming of the Shrew_ for the reasons you think. She seems extraordinarily protective of him. I think she really does just want to help him defect.”

“Or she’s afraid Malfoy’ll come after her if she defects on her own,” Ron said. They looked at him, and he spread his hands apologetically. “What? It’s a possibility, right?”

Hermione nodded reluctantly. “We should consider every possible motive,” she agreed. “But right now, I’m inclined to think the best of her.”

“So why _Taming of the Shrew_?” Harry asked. “It’s horrible!”

“Reverse psychology,” Hermione said. “Malfoy’s an arse, right?” Ron and Harry stared at her, and she flushed. “Well, he _is_. You can’t interact with him the same way you’re both used to. You’ll just end up fighting, and you’ll never convince him that way. I think you already know that, on a subconscious level. The way you handled him today was perfect. Sweet to his sour, no matter how he tries to provoke you. When he insults your parents, you – I don’t know, smile at him. When he tells you to get lost, you tell him how much you’ll miss him, and how you can’t wait until you’re with him again. When he tries to hex you –”

“I kiss him?”

“I did _not_ just hear that,” Ron moaned, putting his hands over his ears.

Hermione smiled. “You’ve got it, Harry.”

~*~

Harry made his way up to the seventh floor that night, balancing a plate piled high with tantalising roast beef, vegetables and Yorkshire puddings, all covered in steaming gravy. Malfoy had been conspicuously absent from dinner again, and Harry thought bringing him some of the leftovers might be a way to – well, get his foot in the door, so to speak.

As usual, there was a little girl standing guard in the hallway outside, this one with cute blonde pigtails and a freckled nose. Harry wondered if she was a Slytherin. The real her, anyway. This was definitely one of Malfoy’s goons, hiding under the guise of Polyjuice.

“Evening,” he said conversationally, and the girl shrieked. A silver bowl went flying, but Harry caught it with a Levitation Charm before it could hit the floor. “Ah, ah!” he chided. “I don’t want you to scare him. I just want you to give him this.”

He handed her the plate, and she blinked at it stupidly. “Huh?”

“I know you’re Goyle,” Harry said. “Or Crabbe. Whatever. I also know Malfoy is in that room. I just want you to give him that, when he comes out. Or if you can get it to him before then. I know he must be hungry.”

The girl’s pretty blue eyes widened to the size of saucers, and she tried to push the plate back at him. “This is a trick! Take it away! _Go away_!”

Her voice had risen to a screech, but it wasn’t quite loud enough to cover the sound of a door opening.

Harry turned on his heel to find Malfoy framed in the doorway to the Room of Requirement. The very same door Harry had been trying to get through for months now, in vain. _Typical_ , he thought wryly.

“Potter.”

“Malfoy,” he returned, as pleasantly as possible. “I brought you dinner.”

“I can see that,” Malfoy said, dryly. His eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, and Harry wondered if he’d actually been _crying_. “Poison, is it? Revenge for the Weasel’s brush with death? I didn’t do it, you know.”

“Yes, you did,” Harry said. “Doesn’t mean I’m not still prepared to do what I said I would, in class this morning.”

Malfoy eyes flickered to the girl and back. “I don’t know what you’re trying to pull here, Potter,” he said, slowly. “And I don’t care. _Fuck off_.”

“I’m just bringing you dinner,” Harry said, nodding at the plate the girl was still, reluctantly, holding. “You need to eat. I’m worried about you.”

Malfoy sucked in a sharp breath. “Potter –”

Harry just turned and walked away. There was no point drawing out the conversation, not when every instinct he had was screaming at him to shove his way past Malfoy into the Room of Requirement and _force_ a confession. There was no guarantee he would succeed, and it would almost certainly lose him any chance of persuading Malfoy to trust him.

So instead, he walked to the end of the hall, turned the corner, and then used his Invisibility Cloak to sneak back around and watch what happened next. For several long, agonising minutes, the two Slytherins were silent, staring down the hallway where he’d disappeared.

Then, finally, the little girl glanced up. “All right?”

Malfoy ran a hand through his hair. “Fine,” he said distractedly. “Thanks, Greg.” He started to turn, to go back inside.

“You going to eat this?”

“What?” Malfoy looked down at the girl, obviously startled. His eyes dropped to the plate in her hands. “No. You have it.”

Harry bit his lip in disappointment, but Malfoy wasn’t moving, his eyes still on the steaming roast.

“Draco?”

“Maybe a little, then.”

“All right,” the girl said. “Let me check it first, though. It might really be poisoned.”

Harry watched in surprise as Goyle cast a number of fairly advanced detection spells over the food, and then proceeded to taste every item on the plate before Malfoy ate. That was a degree of loyalty Harry had never suspected of Slytherins – even, or perhaps especially of Malfoy’s brutish bodyguards.

“Here,” Goyle said finally. “Eat. You need it.”

Malfoy’s lip lifted very slightly in a sneer, but he gave it up after only a moment, and took the plate. “Thank you,” he said, very softly, and slid down the wall to cradle it in his lap.

The girl nodded, taking up position a little further down the hall. There was a tight ache in Harry’s throat as he watched Malfoy wolf down the meal like he was half-starved. He felt _consumed_ , suddenly, by intense, blinding hatred. This was what Voldemort did, then. Turned even the most arrogant, self-involved, pureblood bastard into just one of a long line of his victims.

Someone who deserved his pity. Someone who deserved his help.

It wasn’t exactly a comfortable feeling. Malfoy was one of the bad guys, even if he was too thin and tired and scared for his mother. Harry had no doubt that, if the shoe had been on the other foot, Malfoy would have just pointed and laughed. Gloated, even.

But it was the right thing to do; he was sure of that now. He took one last, lingering look at Malfoy’s huddled, miserable figure, and slipped silently away.

~*~

If anything, Malfoy looked even more tired and harried the next day.

Harry caught him staring several times, and he smiled, each time. Just a small smile, but he tried to make it as open and sincere as possible. It seemed to work; by mid-morning Malfoy was looking bewildered, but no longer as perturbed.

Harry cornered him at the end of Transfiguration. Crabbe and Goyle were re-taking several of their OWLs, including Transfiguration, so Malfoy was without his two goons. An easy target, especially as distracted as he was, and Harry had him backed up against the wall outside the classroom before Malfoy could even think about getting at his wand.

Ignoring the curious murmurs of the few, straggling students, he said, “Come with me to Hogsmeade this weekend.”

“Get _off_ before I hex your arse to –” Malfoy stopped, staring at him. “I’m sorry?”

“A date,” Harry said. “With me. In Hogsmeade. You know, this Saturday?”

“I am well aware of when our last Hogsmeade trip is, Potter,” Malfoy said, tightly. He sounded suddenly, revoltingly like Snape, and Harry almost let him go. But then his eyes caught on the arch of Malfoy’s throat, pale and inviting, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “Stop looking at me like that!” Malfoy snapped, and Harry jerked his head up to meet the stormy grey eyes. “Have you gone _mad_? I don’t date my enemies.”

Harry noticed he didn’t say anything about not dating boys, and wondered if Malfoy’s parents knew about their only son’s proclivities. “Am I really your enemy?” he asked, gently.

Malfoy stilled, looking apprehensive. “What are you implying?”

Harry shrugged. “We’re sixteen years old, and we’re stuck in the middle of a war some madman started years before we were even born. People are _dying_ , Malfoy.” It felt like everyone in the school by now knew someone who had lost family or friends in Voldemort’s vicious guerrilla war. “I like you. I’m attracted to you. I want to date you. Fuck the war. Come with me to Hogsmeade?”

They were attracting a crowd, but Harry didn’t care. Malfoy had mouthed the words _fuck the war_ in bewilderment, and now he was looking at Harry with a spark of curiosity in his grey eyes. That was definitely a step in the right direction.

But, “No,” he said. “Even if I were to look past your unfortunate House affiliation, not to mention your loyalties, you’re still an arrogant, self-righteous, sloppy, badly-dressed buffoon.”

Harry blinked. “Buffoon?”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed, thrusting his chin out. “Going to hit me now, Potty?”

“No,” Harry said, thoughtfully. “I’d quite like to kiss you, though.”

“Don’t you _dare_!” Malfoy gasped, pushing at Harry’s chest in instinctive self-defence. Harry just leaned into him, and Malfoy flushed. It was the first colour Harry had seen on him in a long time, and he realised he’d kind of missed it. “Get. Off. Me!”

“Sorry,” Harry said unhurriedly, stepping back. Malfoy’s hands curled into fists, and he lowered them slowly to his sides, glaring. “I hope you know I would never force myself on you. I respect your decision. But,” Harry winked, “that doesn’t mean I won’t try my _damndest_ to change your mind.”

~*~

Lunch in the Great Hall was a quiet affair, ordinarily; students trickling in and out over the hour-long break to grab a bite, catching up with friends and finishing last-minute homework for the afternoon’s classes. But that day, it seemed like the entire student body was crammed into the Great Hall, everyone buzzing with the new, juicy gossip.

Harry Potter had a serious crush on Draco Malfoy.

“It’s not _true_ , is it, Harry?” Neville asked, his eyes wide.

Harry stifled a grin, well aware that everyone within earshot was straining to hear his reply. He was struck by the sudden, devilish impulse to dissemble. “Is what not true?” he said, innocently.

Neville went bright red, and began stammering.

“You know what, Harry,” Parvarti spoke up, gamely. She was sitting a little further down the table with Lavender Brown and a group of fifth-year girls. “Everyone’s talking about it. You didn’t _really_ invite Malfoy to go with you to Hogsmeade, did you?”

“Oh, that,” Harry said. “Of course I did.”

The girls gaped at him. Neville dropped his spoon with a clatter. “But – b-but –”

“We’ll explain later, Nev,” Dean said kindly, slinging an arm around Neville’s shoulders.

“I thought his reaction was very interesting, actually,” Hermione murmured, and Harry glanced at her questioningly. “He didn’t even really try to stop you pinning him to the wall, and he could have gone for his wand at any time after that, but he didn’t. I think maybe he liked it. Maybe he felt safe.”

Harry felt an unaccustomed heat, low in his belly, at the idea. “He said no, Hermione.”

“Maybe out loud,” she agreed, “but his body language was a whole different story. And I noticed he never said he wasn’t attracted to you. It makes sense, really. Pansy wouldn’t have suggested this if she didn’t think he would be at least somewhat receptive to you.”

“He called me a sloppy, badly-dressed buffoon,” Harry said, dryly. He looked down at his clothes, suddenly aware of his loose tie, his shirt half un-tucked with a stain just below his collar, and the fraying edges of his robes. “Maybe I am a bit sloppy,” he said, his face burning.

Hermione looked sympathetic. “I’d usually say pay no attention, Harry. Unlike Malfoy, you actually have your priorities straight –” Harry grinned at her, and she blushed and began stammering, “I mean, that is – you know what I mean! My _point_ is, it’s Malfoy’s opinion that has to matter right now.” She turned to Seamus, sitting across from them with Dean and Neville. “Do you think Pansy would be willing to help us out? His likes and dislikes, that kind of thing?”

“I’ll ask,” Seamus agreed.

“Good,” Hermione said. “Those were his only real objections, right?”

“You mean apart from being a Gryffindor and, oh, the Boy Who Lived?” Harry said. “Yeah. He called me self-righteous and arrogant.”

“Well, you’re not, so don’t worry about that,” Ginny said, loyally. “He’s just being a git. You’re the _least_ self-righteous person I know. You’re humble and modest and _good_.”

Harry smiled at her awkwardly. Not that he didn’t appreciate the sentiment, but he wasn’t so sure it was true. As a child, he’d wanted so badly to be special, just like Dudley. And then Hagrid had found him, and he _was_ special. He was the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, the prophesied Saviour of the Wizarding World. He was a Gryffindor, heroic and brave.

People expected so much of him, and he hated how disappointed they were in him when he inevitably fell short. So he strived to be better, because that was what they expected of him. That’s what Dumbledore expected of him.

And that was a form of arrogance, wasn’t it? To think of himself as special, as better than everyone else?

Slytherins were bad, and Gryffindors were good. It was simple enough logic for an eleven-year-old, and Harry couldn’t blame Ron or Hagrid for planting the seeds of it. Prejudice of all sorts was woven into the very fabric of wizarding Britain. Against half-bloods, Muggles, Muggleborns, Parselmouths, centaurs and goblins and house-elves... and Slytherins.

 _There’s not a witch or wizard who went bad who wasn’t in Slytherin_.

But that wasn’t true, was it? And yet Dumbledore – Dumbledore who, with the wisdom of his years, should surely have known better – had encouraged the notion. He was _good_ , Dumbledore had assured him, because he had made a choice not to be in Slytherin as an ignorant child.

The flaws in that logic were glaring, but he’d been too young, too new to this world, to see them then. He didn’t have that excuse anymore. He’d watched his father and Sirius cruelly bully a young Snape in Snape's memories. He’d met Peter Pettigrew, heroic Gryffindor, turned coward and traitor and murderer. He’d watched the new Minister for Magic, Rufus Scrimgeour (a Hufflepuff and an Auror) turn against the people, favouring power over truth, arresting innocents so he could be seen to be ‘winning’ the war.

And now Pansy Parkinson was claiming that Malfoy was acting under duress, in a desperate attempt to save his mother. Parkinson herself wanted to defect, and believed their defection would provide the impetus for many others in her house to do the same.

If that was true, maybe it meant most of the Slytherins were really only scared children, waiting for someone to just care enough to rescue them.

And maybe, just maybe, Malfoy had a point.

“All right there, mate?” Ron muttered, through a mouthful of egg-and-mayonnaise sandwich.

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Yeah, I think I am.”

Ron gave him an odd look, but let it go in favour of his lunch, and Harry re-joined the conversation. It had turned to Quidditch, inevitably, with the Gryffindor-Ravenclaw game looming, and he spent a pleasant half-hour discussing tactics, valiantly ignoring the empty seat between Crabbe and Goyle at the Slytherin table.

~*~

Greenhouse eight was a cosy building on the east side of the castle, protected with wards that controlled light, temperature, and humidity, as well as the delicate balance of magic in the soil and air.

The sixth years were learning techniques for handling the rarest and most fragile magical plants, which meant standard groups of three at all times. One person to record measurements and control the plant-specific wards, while the other two worked with the plant itself.

It was the only subject Seamus had with Pansy that Zabini did not share, and he’d lucked out this year, with both the star pupil _and_ the love of his life in his group. Of course, Malfoy hadn’t been pleased at his usual partner being stolen away by Gryffindors, but Daphne Greengrass and Theodore Nott were also in the class, and were both fair hands at Herbology, so he hadn’t kicked up too much of a fuss in the end. It just meant that Seamus had to keep a wary eye out for the Ice Prince while courting his fair maiden.

“You’re looking especially lovely today, Pansy,” he said, giving her his most charming smile. “I like the way you’ve curled your hair.”

She smiled, glancing up from the _Origanum dictamnus_ they were re-potting. “Why, thank you, Seamus.”

“Careful!” Neville cried, wrapping his hands around Pansy’s to steady the plant. “Dittany of Crete is more sensitive than White Dittany. You have to keep a _thick_ layer of dirt between your gloves and the roots, or it’ll burn.”

She gave Neville a tolerant look. “Thank you, Longbottom.”

They guided the plant into its new pot together, and Seamus struggled not to be jealous of the way their fingers intertwined. Fortunately, as soon as the Dittany was safe, Neville realised where his hands were, and flushed, clearly losing the confidence that he always had in his element, but nowhere else.

Seamus relaxed, and winked at Pansy, who was looking vaguely amused as Neville disentangled their hands with stammered apologies.

Seamus jotted some notes down, tested the pH of the soil just to be sure, and then drew a quick sketch of the newly-potted Dittany of Crete. It was a pretty plant, native only to the island of Crete, and had immense magical and healing properties. As a result, it was considered a rare and extremely valuable plant, and a licence was required to even obtain the seeds. Professor Sprout only allowed NEWT-level students to handle the precious plants, and even then she kept a sharp eye on all of them.

As Neville gently packed the soil in around the roots, Pansy leaned closer to Seamus. “How is it coming?” she asked, very quietly.

Seamus glanced behind them, to where Ron, Hermione and Harry sat in a half-circle around their own potted plant. They were close; close enough to overhear their conversation if he wasn’t careful.

“Not bad,” he said, glad of the excuse to move even further into Pansy’s personal space. She just tilted her head, a knowing smile playing at the edges of her mouth. Seamus suddenly felt flushed and warm all over. “You were right, I think Harry might actually have a bit of a thing for Malfoy.” He shook his head, still amazed. “I honestly would never have guessed.”

“That he’s gay?” Pansy queried. “Or that he might be attracted to Draco?”

“Oh, we knew he was gay,” Seamus said. “He came out to us earlier this year, after Finch-Fletchley screwed him over.”

“Justin Finch-Fletchley?” Pansy said, looking over at the Hufflepuffs. They made up the majority of the class, of course; Hufflepuffs as a rule gravitated towards the softer subjects like Divination, Care of Magical Creatures, and Herbology. Justin was sitting with Hannah Abbott and Michael Corner. “The whole school knows the intimate details of every single one of Justin’s ‘conquests’. You’re saying he really dated Harry Potter and kept quiet about it?”

“He didn’t have much choice, once we got to him,” Seamus said, matter-of-factly. “It’s a variation on a spell Hermione found last year. If he doesn’t want to lose his bowels every time he even _thinks_ about sex for a year, he’ll keep his mouth shut.”

Pansy’s eyebrows rose. “I’m impressed. I had no idea Gryffindors could be so vengeful.”

“He hurt Harry,” Seamus said. “We weren’t about to let him humiliate him, too.”

“We?” Pansy asked.

“Dean and I, Ron and Hermione. And Neville, of course,” Seamus said, nodding at their third group member. Neville blushed and waggled his fingers sheepishly. “Luna ran interference for us.

Pansy made a soft sound of surprise. “The fifth-year Ravenclaw? Lovegood?”

“Harry doesn’t have many friends,” Seamus said, shrugging. “But those he does – when he puts his trust in you –” He hesitated, at a loss to put that kind of feeling into words. “I haven’t always been the greatest friend to him, but I’d follow him to hell and back, now, if he asked. We all would. Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville and Luna already did, last year.”

Pansy nodded. “So you all went after Finch-Fletchley? Does Potter know?”

“Course not,” Seamus scoffed. “He’d be horrified at the very idea. He’d do all that and more for any one of us, but he can’t understand anyone wanting to protect him. It’s just not in his nature.”

“Well,” Pansy said, smiling, “I won’t ask how, exactly, Finch-Fletchley hurt him.” She put a hand on his arm. “I respect your loyalty to Potter, and I want you to know that I will swear my allegiance to him, as well, when the time comes.”

Seamus smiled back at her, covering her hand with his. “I don’t know about swearing anything, but we could do with your help now. With Malfoy, I mean. He probably told you he shot down Harry’s invitation to go with him to Hogsmeade. We need some help with what Malfoy likes, what might make him more, uh –”

“Amenable to Potter’s overtures?” Pansy regarded him seriously. “I’ll give it some thought. You have to understand, though – Potter has an uphill battle ahead of him. Draco is in a perilous situation, and it isn’t just a petty, childish grudge he has against Potter. His father is in Azkaban because of him.”

Seamus frowned. He’d forgotten about that. “But you still think Harry’s the best man for the job?”

“Without a doubt,” Pansy said, firmly. “No one else gets under Draco’s skin like he does. No one has the power and the charisma to attract Draco’s attention and _hold it_ like he does. And I really believe he has a chance. I’ve never seen Draco like this before. He’s –” She hesitated, biting her lip, and Seamus knew she was trying to decide if she could trust him.

“I get it,” he said, impulsively. Pansy wore so many masks, and he never knew whether she wanted him to acknowledge that he knew they were there, or not. But just this once, he thought it might help. “You’re betraying his confidence. I know how important loyalty is to you. How important _he_ is.”

She sighed. “His life is more important.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” Seamus promised, shooing Neville urgently away. He moved obediently down the table, a little away from them. “Or, well, just Harry,” Seamus amended, “if you think he needs to know.”

Pansy nodded. “He’s frightened,” she murmured. “And that makes him vulnerable. He’s not taking care of himself. The belief that Potter cares for him could be a powerful incentive. Under any other circumstances, he would never fall for such a simple ruse, but –”

“He’s vulnerable right now,” Seamus finished.

“It’s still not going to be easy.”

Seamus nodded. “That’s why we need your help.”

Pansy gave him a small smile. “Just tell me what you need.”

~*~

Dinner that night was chicken and ham pie, with bread-and-butter pudding and custard for dessert. Harry filled a bowl with custard, and put it on a tray with an enormous slice of pie and vegetables.

Malfoy’s goon was disguised as a fourth-year girl with long brown plaits and glasses. Harry recognised her. June Redcombe, a Ravenclaw who was (rather scandalously) involved with a fifth-year Slytherin.

Usually no one but their immediate circle would have been at all interested in gossip like that, and it certainly wouldn’t have reached the Gryffindor sixth-years. But emotions were running high, and there had been an ugly scene between some Ravenclaws and the hapless boyfriend a few days ago. Harry didn’t know the details, but it had resulted in a hundred points being taken off Ravenclaw. Good news for Gryffindor, of course, because it gave them slightly better odds for winning the House Cup.

“How do you avoid these girls, when you’re Polyjuiced as them?” he asked curiously, as he came up behind her. “Do you track them? Or is her boyfriend in on it? Either way, it’s pretty risky, isn’t it?”

There was no shriek, this time, but the girl dropped a pile of heavy books. Harry let them fall; he figured Malfoy would be expecting him, anyway. “What are you doing here, Potter?” the girl demanded, her tone oddly antagonistic for someone so slight and bookish. “I heard what you did to Draco today! You’re not getting near him again!”

Harry glanced at the wall. There was no door; no sign at all that Malfoy was interested in talking to him. “Fine,” he said, holding out the tray. “Just give him this for me?”

“Sod off!” the girl said, rudely. “Vince and I can get him food from the kitchens, if he wants.” Her eyes were narrowed, small hands clenched into fists, not even bothering with the pretence of actually being June Redcombe. “If he has time, he’ll eat. Otherwise, we don’t bother him, you hear?”

Harry’s jaw tightened, and he realised with a shock that he was angry. No, not just angry. _Furious_. He glared at the girl, slammed Malfoy’s meal down on a nearby table, and crossed over to the wall to hammer on it with his fist. Loudly. “Malfoy! _Malfoy_! I know you’re in there! Open up!”

A door appeared and was wrenched open so suddenly that Harry practically fell into Malfoy’s arms.

“What in the bleeding hell is _wrong_ with you, Potter?!” Malfoy hissed, shoving him away. “Are you trying to bring Filch up here? Is that your plan? Make it so I can’t work –”

Harry found his feet again, glowering. “I cast an Imperturbable Charm, you prat! Filch won’t hear a thing.”

Malfoy stared at him. And then he swayed, falling against the doorframe, bone-deep weariness in every line of his body. His eyes were bloodshot, like he hadn’t slept in days. “What do you want, Potter?”

“I want you to eat,” Harry said, simply. “You don’t come to dinner, I hardly ever see you at breakfast… for all I know, you’re skipping lunch as well. You might have been able to hide it for a while, but anyone with eyes can see how much weight you’ve lost. How d’you expect to be able to carry out You-Know-Who’s task if you’re slowly starving yourself to death?”

Malfoy’s goon coughed, and mumbled something about standing guard further down the hall. She moved out of earshot, leaving Harry with Malfoy, who stared at him as if he’d just declared his allegiance to Voldemort.

 _Oh_.

“You _are_ mad,” Malfoy breathed, wide-eyed. “Potter, the Dark Lord wants you dead. If it wasn’t for his direct orders, _I_ would have killed you, long ago.”

Harry’s lip curled. “Yeah?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Malfoy hissed.

“I don’t believe you,” Harry said. “I don’t think you’re a killer, Draco.”

Malfoy glared at him. “You said –”

“Yeah,” Harry shrugged. “But you have to know that poisoned wine and a cursed necklace are pretty pathetic attempts at murder, whoever your target is.”

Malfoy’s hands curled into fists. “ _Pathetic_ –!”

“Yes,” Harry said, firmly. “And you have to truly hate your victim to cast an Unforgivable. I don’t think you have that in you.”

“You have no idea what I’m capable of,” Malfoy snarled, taking an aggressive step forward. “I’m not you, Potter. I know you tried to use the Cruciatus Curse on my aunt last year. She told me you couldn’t do it, even though she killed your godfather right in front of you. I’m not like you. _I can hate_.”

Harry felt sick at the idea of Bellatrix gloating over Sirius to the Malfoys. He wanted to lash out, to answer Malfoy’s ugly taunting with fists or an Unforgivable curse of his own, just to prove he _could_ … but that was what Malfoy wanted, wasn’t it? To goad him into saying something that would reveal his true motives. And that would ruin the whole Plan.

“Okay,” he said, after a moment, keeping his voice steady with an effort. “I believe you. But starving yourself won’t get your master’s dirty work done any faster. Just take ten minutes to eat. Please?”

Malfoy stared at him in disbelief. “So, what, all of a sudden you don’t care about my task? Or even that we’re on opposite sides of the war? You just –” He stopped, flustered. “I mean. You w _ant_ – to date me?”

Harry grinned. “Is that a yes?”

“No!” Malfoy said, sharply. “There’s something wrong with you. Is it possible you could’ve been dosed with some kind of mind-altering potion? A love potion? Are you getting pins and needles in your left foot?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Harry said. “Why would a love potion stick when even the Imperius Curse can’t?” Malfoy’s eyes narrowed, and Harry gestured towards the food on the nearby table. It was under a warming charm, thank Merlin, or it would have been stone cold by now. “Just eat, okay? Chicken and ham pie. It’s good, I promise. I’m going to bed. See you tomorrow?”

Malfoy looked irritable. “I don’t suppose I get any say in that?” Harry just smiled, turning to go, and Malfoy said, “Potter.”

Harry glanced over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Thanks. For dinner.”

Harry nodded. “You’re welcome.”

Malfoy’s mouth twisted. “And, Potter?”

“Yeah?”

“If you value your life, don’t _ever_ call me by my first name again.”

Harry chuckled. He’d just had a very interesting thought. The door to the Room of Requirement had opened so quickly, so suddenly after he’d begun hammering on it… well, the only possible explanation was that Malfoy had been standing right there, listening to the conversation. Listening for _Harry_.

“Sure thing, Malfoy,” he said cheerfully, and whistled on his way back to Gryffindor tower.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone leaving comments and kudos, I appreciate it so much! xx

**CHAPTER TWO**

**THE WAY TO A MAN'S HEART**

Part Two

Slughorn had given them comprehensive notes on the second stage of the Resolution potion to copy down from the blackboard while he graded fifth-year potions at his desk. There was a faintly sweet smell in the air from a previous class, contrasting sharply with a far stronger sulphurous smell of a potion gone wrong. The Draught of Peace, Pansy thought with a small smirk.

Her own Draught of Peace, last year, had released such a delicately sweet smell that Professor Snape had awarded her the highest mark in the year. Granger’s face had been priceless.

“I don’t understand it, Pans,” Draco said, in an undertone, dipping his quill into his inkpot.

She felt her heart stutter, and paused deliberately before answering. “Hm?”

“Potter,” Draco said, as if that explained everything.

“You’re going to have to be a little more specific than that, love,” she said.

He pointed wordlessly to the brown paper bag on his desk, and Pansy bit the inside of her cheek. She’d seen Potter loitering in the hallway before class, of course; seen him shove the bag into Draco’s hand as he rushed past. She’d used her wand, discreetly, and cast a non-verbal _Perspicio_ on the bag. It was breakfast; a bacon and egg buttie, three fat sausages, steaming hot, and an Un-Spillable glass of pumpkin juice.

Draco had peeked inside, and then set it on his desk, frowning. He hadn’t touched it since, but Pansy had heard his stomach growl once or twice.

“What is it Muggles say?” Pansy murmured. “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach?”

He looked at her sharply. “What makes you think I’d be at all interested in what _Muggles_ say?”

She just raised an eyebrow at him. Draco could talk the talk as well as any Slytherin, but she was perhaps the only one in the world who knew just how fascinated he was by all things Muggle. Ever since fourth year, when her mother had insisted she start taking Muggle Studies, Draco had pored over her textbooks in the dead of night, sounding out the unfamiliar words and staring, enthralled, sometimes for hours on end, at the strangely still pictures.

He claimed it was a case of ‘know thy enemy’, but Pansy wasn’t fooled. He had never had any real contact with the Muggle world, and thus they were a fairytale; not quite real, but entirely, illicitly, captivating.

Not so to Pansy. She’d hated Muggle Studies; had pleaded with her father every summer to let her drop out. Until her mother had been murdered by her father’s master, and she’d vowed to reject every single one of the Dark Lord’s sick, twisted ideologies.

“You really think Potter is trying to find the way to my heart?” Draco asked, after a moment.

Pansy turned her head towards the blackboard to hide her smile. “You tell me,” she said, injecting her tone with the slightest amount of reproach. “I heard about your encounter with him outside Transfiguration yesterday, but you know how quickly gossip like that spreads and corrupts.”

Draco flashed her an apologetic smile. “He asked me to Hogsmeade,” he said, laying his quill to one side and waiting for the ink on his parchment to dry. “I said no. That’s all.”

“Rumour has it your rejection was a little more spirited than just no,” Pansy said, amused. “People are bandying around the word ‘buffoon’. Very creative.”

Draco shook his head. “He told me –”

“Everyone get your cauldrons out!” Professor Slughorn bellowed cheerfully, throwing open the stasis cupboard holding their half-made potions. “We’ll begin the second stage today. Same partners, obviously! Remember that this potion counts for fifteen percent of your grade, so follow your instructions _to the letter_.”

Students began moving, chairs scraping back, a cacophony of voices erupting.

Draco stood, and Pansy caught at his hand. “Later?” she whispered, suddenly hyper-aware of the students surrounding them.

He looked down, and gave her a small nod. “My room. Nine-thirty.”

~*~

Draco stumbled into his room late that night, his assignation with Pansy completely forgotten. He could hardly keep his eyes open, so it took him a moment to realise that someone was curled up on his bed, making tiny whuffling sighs he recognised immediately as Pansy’s _they are not snores, Draco_!

He felt his lips pull into a semblance of a smile, but it couldn’t hold. He was far too tired. Even taking the last, remaining steps to the bed seemed like a mammoth task. He didn’t think he could handle a heart-to-heart with his best friend as well.

“Draco?”

He startled at the touch of that familiar hand, eyes flying open.

“You’re practically asleep on your feet,” she scolded, leading him over to the bed. “It’s almost midnight! Where have you been?”

“I –” he murmured. “I thought I was close, but –” He lost his train of thought again, eyes drifting shut as Pansy fussed over him, tucking him gently into bed.

She was an angel, his Pansy. Beautiful, witty, and shrewd, with a practical streak a mile wide, and a tenderness of spirit that would make her an excellent mother, one day. He’d always thought that when he married, it would be to her. But he would rather suffer his father’s lectures a hundred times over than inflict a loveless, asexual marriage on her; not when he knew that she desired a union of love above anything else.

“Here,” Pansy said, and he forced his eyes half-open. “Invigoration Draught.”

Just looking at that tiny blue vial gave him the intense urge to vomit. “Pansy...”

“We need to talk,” she said, firmly. He felt the bed dip as she settled herself beside him. “I need you to talk to me, Draco.” It was essentially a demand, but he could hear the naked plea under the words.

He sighed and took a swig obediently; enough to bring him back to full alertness. It kicked in almost instantly, flooding through his body like adrenaline, bringing strength back to his limbs, clearing his head of the fog of sleep. It was almost painful. He’d been using it for so long, and he was so _tired_...

“I found sixteen vials in your trunk,” Pansy said.

Draco eyed her cautiously, thinking it was probably a good thing she didn’t know that was just his overflow storage. He kept most of them upstairs, in the Room of Requirement; close at hand, for when he needed them most.

“Along with several different restorative draughts, Girding Potion, Wit-Sharpening Potion, and Pepper Up,” Pansy continued. “Why in Morgana’s name do you need Pepper Up, Draco? Are you sick?”

He avoided her eyes. “I can’t afford a cold right now, Pans. And you know Girding Potion lowers immunity to common illnesses.”

“Only if you take more than the maximum recommended –” She stopped, eyes wide. “ _Draco_. How much are you taking?”

“Just two vials, three times a day,” Draco said, and Pansy made a strangled noise. “It’s the recommended dose, Pans,” he assured her. “Just, with the faerie wings in the Girding Potion, and the guarana in the Invigoration Draught –”

“Any kind of infection right now would _kill_ you,” she breathed. “Oh, Draco, _why_?”

“I don’t have a choice.”

“You of all people know how dangerous long-term use of the Invigoration Draught is! The addictive properties alone –”

“It doesn’t matter,” he said, frustrated. “I have to keep her safe. You know that.”

“Of course I do,” she retorted. “I also know the bicorn horn in the Pepper Up will eventually interact with the high dosage of faerie wings in your body to damage your Occlumency shields. You won’t even realise it’s happening! How will you protect Narcissa when your shields fail? How will you protect _yourself_?”

A chill shivered down his spine. She was right, of course. Those shields were his only protection from certain death right now. The Dark Lord required unquestioning obedience and devotion from his followers at all times. If he were ever to break through Draco’s carefully constructed layers – if he were to learn the _true_ depth of Draco’s contempt for him –

It would cost him everything.

He’d never wanted to be a Death Eater. He came from an ancient, proud line of pureblood nobility. The Dark Lord, a half-blood, though admittedly of Salazar Slytherin’s descent, was worthy of respect, perhaps. But not of service. Not obedience, no matter what political banner he rallied them behind.

He certainly didn’t have the right to take up residence in Malfoy Manor, altering wards that had been linked to Malfoy blood for over fifty generations, leaving the Malfoy patriarch to rot in that Dementor-infested excuse of a prison while he and his filthy minions made themselves comfortable in _their_ home, treating Draco like the dirt under a dragon’s toenail instead of the scion of a family as close to royalty as the wizarding world had… Threatening his mother’s _life_.

But loyalty to his father, and love for his mother, had demanded that Draco bend his knee and submit.

He was all too aware that his task was next to impossible; punishment, for his father’s failure. Even if, against all odds, he actually succeeded, it still would not guarantee the Dark Lord’s forgiveness. But he had made certain vows, and for his mother’s sake, he would not forsake them.

He would not fail.

“I’m not there yet, Pans,” he said. “I promise.”

Pansy searched his eyes. “I’ll hold you to that,” she said, and Draco nodded. She sighed. “All right. Tell me what Potter’s up to. Maybe I can help.”

“He offered me his protection.”

Her hand tightened around his, and she stared at him with wide eyes. “ _Merlin_ ,” she breathed. “What? Draco –”

“I know.” He shook his head. “It’s incomprehensible. _He’s_ incomprehensible. I thought it was just a malicious prank, at first. I thought his little Gryffindor toadies would pop out from behind the corner, screaming with laughter, and he’d swagger off with that insufferably smug grin of his at having had one over on me. But he didn’t. And… he’s been bringing me dinner. Three days in a row, now.”

She frowned. “That _is_ odd.”

“I thought it might be a new tactic to try to stop me completing my task,” he said. “Something Granger came up with, perhaps. Potter certainly has neither the wit nor subtlety for such a scheme. But he brought me cream cakes tonight, Pans. My favourite. And he passed over the bread-and-butter pudding last night, which I never touch, and just brought me a bowl of custard. How could he possibly know I like custard and cream cakes? _Why_ would he know that?”

“Intriguing,” she agreed.

“Maybe,” Draco said. “I’m just flummoxed, myself.”

He got a smile for that, at least. “What can I do, Draco?” she asked. “He’s obviously troubling you, and you’ve so much else to deal with right now...”

“I don’t know,” he said, shrugging. “It’s just little things. Like the way he’s been smiling at me. And practically forcing the food on poor Greg if I don’t go out to him, like all he cares about is that I eat. And he keeps saying he’s worried about me. And wants to date me. And,” he shifted, feeling his cheeks flush, “when he asked me to Hogsmeade after Transfiguration yesterday, he wasn’t exactly… indifferent to me, if you see what I mean.”

Pansy blinked at him. Then she laughed. “No. Potter had a _hard-on_ for you, and you were in close enough proximity to _feel_ it?”

He scowled at her. “Must you be so crude, Parkinson?”

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she said, grinning. “I heard he had you up against a wall, but I didn’t believe it until now.”

“I was distracted,” Draco said, defensively. “And my wand was in my bag.”

But that was just an excuse, really. And a pitiful one, at that. The truth was, he hadn’t given his wand a second thought after Potter’s proposal. It had been all he could do to focus on Potter’s words, what with those startling-green eyes so blatantly undressing him, that lithe, firm body pressing into him, the strength in those arms pinning him to the wall, the hard length of Potter’s cock against his thigh, easily felt even through both sets of robes...

Pansy bit down on her lip, clearly amused. “Draco, I hate to say this, but it sounds as though he’s trying to court you. Seriously.”

He glowered at her. “Of course he is. I just don’t know _why_.”

“Mordred only knows,” she said, cheekily. “Perhaps he _likes_ you?” She squinted at him. “On second thought –”

“Oh, shut it,” Draco said. “We’ve been sworn enemies since our first week here. Even if he is gay – even if he’s gone and developed a healthy, if rather sudden and belated, appreciation for my admittedly exceptional looks –” Pansy snorted, and he gave her a deliberately arch look, before continuing seriously, “simple lust wouldn’t be enough to change how he feels about me. Not enough to want to date me. Or to –”

“Offer you his protection.”

“Exactly,” he sighed.

“I see,” she said. “You think he’s in love with you.”

He felt his mouth drop open. “Salazar’s balls, Pansy! Of course I don’t! What in the seven hells is _wrong_ with you?”

“It was your conclusion,” she said innocently, spreading her hands. “I just put it into words.”

“You did no such thing!” Draco said, horrified. “Merlin’s beard! It’s absurd enough to – to have to accept he’s _physically_ attracted to me, let alone – he doesn’t even _know_ me!” He snorted. “Fuck’s sake, Pansy! He’s not in love with me, you hopeless romantic. This is what comes of bedding Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs. I did warn you.”

Pansy smiled. “You’re one to talk.”

“Oh, shut it,” he told her. “There’s something –” he rubbed at his eyes, “something _else_ going on.” He yawned, and suddenly Pansy was looking significantly blurrier. “Sorry,” he said, realising his eyes were closing involuntarily. The half-life of the Invigoration Draught was decreasing at a worryingly rapid rate, the longer he used it. Just twelve minutes, now, even after the adrenaline of the fright Pansy had just given him. “The potion’s wearing off. Do you want –?”

“No,” Pansy said, already beginning to move. “You should sleep, love. Just promise me you’ll be careful? Really careful. Whatever Potter’s up to, whatever his reasons for courting you, you won’t let him hurt you. Understood?”

He smiled. “Understood,” he said, yawning again and sinking lower on the bed. “I won’t let him get to me, Pans. I promise.”

~*~

Pansy kept a careful watch over the two boys, after that. The promise Draco had made haunted her. She’d always known it wouldn’t be that straightforward. It _couldn’t_ be, not to achieve the outcome she wanted. She felt sick to her stomach every time Draco’s eyes were drawn to Potter, every time his gaze lingered on Potter’s admittedly very nice arse, or caught the other boy’s eyes with his.

It was a dangerous game they were playing; one that could get Draco and his family killed, yes, but also one that could result in his broken heart. Sometimes she couldn’t decide which would be worse. She wanted Draco to defect, yes; to be _safe_. She didn’t want him to fall in love.

Of course, if _Potter_ were to…

But, no. That was wishful thinking. Hopeless romanticism, as Draco had accused her of. True love and happy endings were the stuff of fairytales. It was why _The Taming of the Shrew_ appealed to her so much; the ambiguity of it, the harsh and brutal truths.

She thought Granger might understand that. The girl was surprisingly perceptive, for a Gryffindor.

“So, I was thinking,” she said in her usual abrupt fashion, showing up at Pansy’s shoulder as if summoned directly from her thoughts. “We should throw a party.”

“I’m sorry?” Pansy said, politely. She steered them unobtrusively away from the crowds of students, into a quiet hallway.

“For all the sixth years,” Granger explained. “The seventh years have one after their exams, of course, but we’re not invited to that, and besides, I think it would be a good opportunity for everyone to get to know your housemates in a more informal, relaxed environment.”

Pansy considered her, surprised. It was a brilliant idea; one worthy of a pureblood. _Again with your prejudices_ , she scolded herself. It was hard to overcome the habits of thought and behaviour that spanned a lifetime, but for her mother’s sake, she was trying.

Not once in her life could she remember Philena Parkinson ever spitting the epithet Mudblood, or being cruel to house-elves, or even speaking down to the less fortunate. She had been beauty and grace personified, inside and out. Her father – oh, Donald was the stereotypical pureblood bigot, with all the characteristic Slytherin flaws and a good few more besides. He had loved them, though, Pansy thought, despite all that.

“I think that’s an excellent idea,” she said, warmly.

Hermione brightened. “Great!” she said, enthusiastically. “Obviously we need to give Harry time to get close to Malfoy, so I was thinking we might plan the party for the same night as the seventh years’. That way, the professors will be less likely to notice a few extra students out of bed.”

“Agreed,” Pansy said. That gave them just over five weeks to plan.

“We’ll have to sort out a neutral meeting place,” Granger said. “And draw up party invitations. They’ll have to go out in few weeks, and we have to make sure none of them fall into any professors’ hands. I might be able to find some kind of charm for that.”

“Read up on age-related charms and hexes,” Pansy advised her. “Like the age barrier Dumbledore used on the Tri-Wizard Goblet.”

Hermione nodded. “Good idea. And we should think about food.”

“And alcohol,” Pansy added. Granger looked faintly scandalised, and Pansy told her, “Believe me, butterbeer is fine for a chilly day out in Hogsmeade, but you won’t catch any self-respecting Slytherin drinking anything weaker than firewhiskey at a party.”

“Well,” Hermione pursed her lips. “All right, then. I’ll leave that up to you. We can arrange the food – we’ve got friends among the house-elves who will help us.”

Pansy tilted her head curiously. “Weren’t you the founder of – what was it, Spew?”

“S.P.E.W.,” Hermione said, stiffly. “And yes. But there’s a house-elf down in the kitchens who works for a real salary now, and I’m still hopeful that where one is freed... I just have to work out a new strategy. It’s just –” she looked guilty now, “they _are_ slaves, but they do at least _seem_ happy. And they’re not mistreated here. I have to put Harry first, now, until the war is over. Then the gloves come off, believe me.”

“That’s very commendable,” Pansy said, sincerely. “Potter is lucky to have someone like you on his side.”

Granger’s brown eyes widened. “Oh! Th-thank you.”

Pansy smiled. “I mean it. I hope I can be even half as valuable as you are to him.”

“Well, you’ve already been very helpful,” Hermione said earnestly, clearly eager to return the compliment. “Seamus passed on the list of Malfoy’s likes and dislikes, and Harry received your package in the owl post this morning.” She shook her head. “They fit him perfectly, and he looks _amazing_. How did you know?”

Pansy laughed. “I have an eye for clothes, I suppose. Does he like them?”

“I think so,” Hermione said, frowning. “It’s hard to tell with boys.”

“Agreed,” Pansy said, sharing a smile with her. It was nice. Draco was her best friend and confidante, but it wasn’t the same as having a girlfriend to laugh with. And it was just too dangerous to share too much with Daphne and Millicent, these days.

“He wants to pay you, though,” Granger said, after a moment. “He asked me to get the bill from you.”

Pansy frowned. “It was supposed to be a gift.”

“I know,” Hermione said, apologetically. “But I’m afraid Harry won’t accept it. It’s not like he’s proud about money or gifts, it’s just, he doesn’t know you. And – well, you _are_ a Death Eater.” She had lowered her voice to barely above a whisper, and looked anxious.

Pansy just nodded. She couldn’t argue with the truth, after all. “I’ll send him the bill. And, if you like, I could help you get him ready on Saturday?”

Hermione looked cheered by the idea. “I’d appreciate that,” she said. “I’ll let you into the common room at – say, six-thirty? That way, no one will be up yet to see you come in, and we can sneak you out afterwards using a Disillusionment Charm. I’m quite good at them now.”

“I’ll be there,” Pansy promised, and the other girl began to turn. “Granger?”

Hermione turned back, smiling shyly. “You can call me Hermione, you know.”

“All right. Hermione.” Pansy inclined her head. “If anyone can free the house-elves, Hermione, it’s you.”

Hermione’s face flushed bright red in embarrassed pleasure, and she skipped a little as she walked away, humming a happy little tune. It wasn’t anything Pansy recognised, which meant it was probably Muggle.

She found herself humming that same tune, hours later.

~*~

That night, Harry took a detour by the kitchens to beg some cream cakes off an always eager-to-please Dobby. He spotted Kreacher lurking in the corner, and waved. The ugly little thing grumbled, and turned away. Harry wondered if he was grateful or irritated not to be spying on Draco anymore for him.

“Dobby is keeping an eye on him still,” Dobby assured him, and Harry thanked him and went on his way.

Dessert had been apple and rhubarb crumble, and according to Pansy’s list, Malfoy loathed rhubarb. So he made his way up to the seventh floor with a plate of shepherd’s pie and four cream cakes instead, carefully wrapped, shrunk, and secreted in a pocket.

His steps quickened as he turned the last corner.

The small girl standing watch in the middle of the hallway was holding a bird-cage. From under her robes, too-large boy’s shoes peeked out.

Harry grinned. “Couldn’t find any shoes in your size, Goyle? Or is it Crabbe today?” The girl whirled to face him, glaring, and Harry widened his eyes innocently. “Not that they don’t look lovely on you!”

She grumbled something under her breath, turned, and stomped away down the hall. But she didn’t drop the bird-cage (metal; it would have made an awful racket clattering to the stone floor). Harry’s grin widened.

He knocked on the wall, shifting from foot to foot as he waited. This battle of wills with his once-nemesis, the power struggle as each fought to be the one in control of the encounter, was _thrilling_. Malfoy was no fool, but he was frightened and exhausted and alone, and Harry was steadily wearing away at his resolve. He could already see the signs of surrender.

Up until now, all of Harry’s successes had been nothing compared to his failures. And now he was doing something real at last; something important. Something that might actually save someone. Someone even, perhaps, _worth_ saving.

A minute passed, and then another. He frowned, staring at the unresponsive wall. “Malfoy?” he called.

Nothing. The wall remained stubbornly blank.

Harry’s eyes narrowed. Leaning a little closer, he said, “Do you really want me to resort to blackmail, Malfoy?”

The door to the Room of Requirement appeared instantly. Malfoy yanked it open, scowling. “You wouldn’t dare!” he said. “Anyway, you have no proof.”

Harry bit down on a smile. “Proof of what?” he said. “I was referring to the cream cakes in my possession. And that,” he added, when Malfoy’s eyes lit up and he started to extend a hand, “is where the blackmail comes in. You have to eat something more filling and nutritious first.”

Malfoy’s scowl deepened. “What is _wrong_ with you, Potter? I said no.”

“No?” Harry said, looking down at the shepherd’s pie. It was liberally applied with thick, delicious gravy, preserved under a warming charm, and it smelled heavenly. Even after several helpings earlier, Harry was tempted. “It’s good,” he promised.

“No, I’m not _going with you to Hogsmeade_ ,” Malfoy emphasised, sharp and impatient. “No matter how many times you bring me dinner!”

Harry sighed. “Draco… that’s not why.” He reached out to touch Malfoy’s arm, but stopped when those expressive eyebrows rose. “I know you don’t trust me. I just really, really don’t like seeing you go hungry. No one deserves to be afraid and sleep-deprived and starving, no matter who they are. And no one –” he held Malfoy’s gaze, “ _no one_ deserves to have to cry alone.”

Malfoy’s eyes flickered away. “I don’t cry, Potter,” he said. “And I’m not afraid.”

Harry’s mouth twisted. “Then you’re the only one. Everyone’s scared. And everyone cries. It’s not something to be ashamed of.”

“My father would beg to differ,” Malfoy said.

Harry had to bite down, hard, on his instinctive reply. Talking about Lucius Malfoy was almost guaranteed to send this conversation spinning off in a direction detrimental to The Plan. “Your father isn’t here,” he said instead, mildly. “Just me.”

“And you’re scared, are you, Potter?” Malfoy taunted, almost on autopilot.

“Terrified,” Harry said, honestly.

Malfoy’s eyes snapped back to his, widening, and Harry couldn’t help but remember a similar exchange in their second year; a challenge met and matched on the duelling stage. How he would have rather died, then, than tell Malfoy he was scared.

“I’m not an idiot,” he said, and Malfoy’s lips twitched. Harry grinned. “My point is, I’m number one on Voldemort’s hit list. Scared doesn’t _begin_ to cover it.” He pressed the plate of shepherd’s pie into Malfoy’s hands. “Eat, yeah? I haven’t had dessert either. It was apple and rhubarb crumble tonight, and I don’t like rhubarb much, myself. I’m looking forward to those cream cakes.”

Malfoy stared at him, a slow flush creeping up his cheeks. “You’re going to watch me eat,” he said, and from down the hall, his Polyjuiced goon made a small noise of protest, “and then you want me to _share my food_ with you?”

“Technically,” Harry pointed out, “it’s still my food. I haven’t given it to you yet.”

“You’re my _enemy_ , Potter!”

Harry sighed. “So you keep saying. I’m really not, you know. At least, I don’t have to be. I don’t want to be.”

“What we want matters to no one, Potter,” Malfoy said, flatly.

“I –” Harry said, and then stopped, surprised.

He felt _winded_.

For as long as he could remember, his needs had come second to Dudley’s wants. He’d never known anything different. Then Hagrid had come to take him away, but nothing had changed, really. He was the wizarding world’s Chosen One, and that meant what he wanted would never be anyone’s number one priority. He didn’t get to leave the Dursleys, because he was the Chosen One. He didn’t get to choose what he did with his life. Didn’t get to do anything but fight, and kill, because it was the right thing to do, and there was a prophecy saying he had to do it.

He’d accepted that.

But Malfoy – that spoilt little prat who had been handed everything he’d ever wanted on a solid gold platter – wouldn’t know the right thing if it bit him on the arse. So how the hell did he _know_?

“Potter,” Malfoy said, and then fell silent.

Harry looked up reluctantly, expecting the other boy to take advantage of his lapse, if only to cover his own, inadvertent vulnerability. But whatever Malfoy saw in Harry’s face, it made his own expression, inexplicably, soften. He sank into a cross-legged position with his plate of shepherd’s pie, indicating the floor opposite him.

“Not for long,” he warned.

Harry slid down the opposite wall to hug his knees obediently, though not nearly as gracefully as Malfoy, judging by his smirk. He watched Malfoy eat, feeling strangely off-balance. Just a few short days ago, he’d agreed to do this out of pity. Now – now, he wondered if he didn’t have more in common with Draco Malfoy than he’d thought possible.

“You know, you haven’t even asked me if I’m inclined that way?” Malfoy said, abruptly.

Harry frowned, taken aback. “I wouldn’t have asked you out if I thought you were straight.”

“Most people,” Malfoy told him, haughtily, “would never assume a pureblood of my status was anything _but_ straight. I don’t advertise my sexuality, Potter.”

“Nor do I,” Harry agreed. “I mean, not that I’ve known long myself. I realised, over the summer, and ever since then… I’ve been looking.” Which wasn’t a lie; he _had_ been looking, just not with any intent. Now, of course, he had an obligation to look, so he caught and held those guarded grey eyes with his own. “It took me a lot longer to see you than it probably should have. But I see you now, Draco.”

Malfoy froze. And then he scrambled to his feet, turned, and slammed the door to the Room of Requirement in Harry’s face.

Harry blinked. “I take it that means you don’t want your cream cakes?” he called.

There was no answer, but really, he hadn’t expected one. He dropped the sweet cakes in the goon’s dainty hands instead, and went on his way, comforting himself with the knowledge that Draco had taken the shepherd’s pie with him, at least.

That was something, right?

~*~

The next night, Harry found Crabbe fast asleep under a portrait of an ancient knight and his noble steed, snoring.

Harry frowned, and knocked on the wall. It opened within moments, but Malfoy just took the proffered dinner and dessert (banoffee pie, this time, as well as fresh cream cakes; an apology for the previous night), and shut the door again without a word. His eyes were red-rimmed and fatigued; he didn’t look Harry in the eye, and didn’t even notice that Crabbe wasn’t at his post.

Harry felt anger rise in his chest; a fury he’d never felt before. It was agonising to feel this much. He wanted to lash out, to bite and kick and _scream_ at the injustice. There was an answering echo of hate and rage in his mind, and it shocked him back to himself.

“Fuck,” he whispered, leaning forward to rest his fevered forehead against the wall. “ _Fuck_.”

Voldemort hadn’t invaded his mind at all this year. Dumbledore thought he was actively avoiding contact, after what had happened in the Ministry last year. But that didn’t mean Harry could afford to be complacent. On the contrary. Sirius would never have died if he’d just paid a little more attention in his Occlumency lessons.

He took a deep breath, trying to remember Snape’s instructions.

 _Empty your mind_.

That was easier said than done, but after a couple of minutes, he at least felt calmer, his mental barriers stronger. He draped his Invisibility Cloak over Crabbe, and then hopped up on a nearby table to wait for Malfoy.

Luckily, he had his school bag with him, so he was able to keep himself occupied with their latest assignment, an essay for Professor Sprout on the indications and contraindications of Dittany of Crete compared to White Dittany in Healing. It was actually interesting reading, and he concluded with a satisfying paragraph positing that while White Dittany had the longer, more traditional history of use in both Muggle and Magical medicine, Dittany of Crete was in fact one of the most useful (and under-valued) plants in modern Magical Healing.

He finished with a flourish, re-capped his ink pot, and measured the parchment length just to be sure. 17 inches. Perfect.

“Potter? What are you still doing here?”

Harry jerked, startled. He looked up to see Malfoy squinting at him from the door to the Room of Requirement.

“Draco,” he said, stupidly. “Hey.” He jumped down from the table and nodded at the empty space where Crabbe still lay. “Your bodyguard fell asleep. I took his place.”

Malfoy stared, uncomprehending. The dark circles under his eyes were even more pronounced than usual, and he was struggling to focus on Harry. “You… took Vince’s place?” he said, almost slurring his words in his exhaustion. “But, Potter, I’m your _enemy_.”

“No, you’re not,” Harry retorted, patiently. He was determined to repeat it as many times as it took for Malfoy to believe him. “You never were.” Malfoy swayed on his feet, and Harry took a step forward, concerned. “Are you all right?”

“Just tired,” Malfoy said. “Don’t come any closer.” But he swayed again, almost asleep on his feet, and this time he fell. Harry caught him. “Don’t,” Malfoy said, but he didn’t struggle, and Harry slid down the wall to cradle the other boy in his lap. It was slightly awkward, but Malfoy was almost boneless, and Harry had them settled in no time. “I don’t understand you, Potter,” Malfoy murmured.

“I know,” Harry returned, very gently, pressing a kiss to that white-blond hair. It was, unfortunately, as light and soft as it looked, and he dragged himself away reluctantly. “Sleep for a bit, yeah?”

“‘M _not_ sleep–”

But whatever Malfoy had intended to say, it was lost to an enormous yawn, and within moments, Harry had a sleeping Slytherin in his arms. “Huh,” he said, but very quietly. It was kind of nice, and it would be a shame if he woke him.

~*~

Draco woke, hours later, to find himself on a low sofa in a small, unremarkable alcove. He was warm and comfortable; there was a Gryffindor cloak covering him, with temporary warming charms woven skilfully through the fabric, and a rolled-up jumper under his head. Not his own.

He was so comfortable that it took him several minutes to remember that it was Saturday. Their last visit to Hogsmeade for the year. His last opportunity to explain his continued failures to the Dark Lord before the deadline.

He’d stayed up all night on Thursday, desperate to have something – _anything_ – to report. Some tiny breakthrough, some small success that would stay the Dark Lord’s hand. He’d been completely unable to concentrate in his classes on Friday, half of him sleeping while the other half went over and over every experiment, every calculation, every incantation, searching for _something_ he’d missed. By midnight, just one look at that sickly blue vial of Invigoration Draught had brought tears to his eyes. He remembered stumbling to the door in blind exhaustion, remembered looking for Vince, and seeing Potter instead.

 _I see you now, Draco_.

Potter, whose scent he was breathing in right now – and the fact that he _knew_ it was Potter’s scent had him pushing up and away hurriedly.

A piece of parchment fluttered to the ground. He picked it up grudgingly.

 _Malfoy_ , it began, in large, messy script. Typical Potter. _I’m sorry I let you sleep here instead of taking you back to Slytherin. I fell asleep myself and didn’t wake until half-four. Thought you’d be better off sleeping the night through, so I tried to get you here without disturbing you. Hope it worked. You look comfortable, anyway. You’re beautiful when you sleep, did you know that?_

There was a smiley face, and Draco’s stomach fluttered.

_Crabbe is still under my Invisibility Cloak outside the Room. I cast a Sleeping Charm on him, just in case he woke before you. Would you mind returning my Cloak to me today? Only my closest friends know about it, and I’d like to keep it that way._

Draco stared at the words for a moment, and then ran out into the hallway.

There was no tell-tale shimmer of an Invisibility Cloak, even to a Malfoy’s trained eye, and he wondered if Potter was having him on. Then again, he couldn’t remember seeing a shimmer that day on the train, either, when Potter had eavesdropped on their conversation and he’d broken the stupid git’s nose.

He felt his way along the sides of the hallway, and bumped into something near the table Potter had been sitting on. Reaching down, he felt fabric under his fingers, and tugged. It came away, revealing Vincent curled up, thumb in his mouth as he slept.

Draco looked at the cloak in his hands. He hadn’t really paid attention to it that day on the train. His mind had been filled with the Dark Lord’s threats, the fear that Potter might have heard something damning, and the satisfaction of maybe getting rid of the speccy git for a couple of days. The cloak had been a means to an end, then; nothing more.

But it was beautiful, he saw now. Long and rich with colour, and silken to the touch. There were no clumsy Bedazzling Hexes or Disillusionment Charms woven into the fabric. Nothing to detract from its beauty. The material was almost otherworldy, slipping like water through Draco’s fingers. Obviously not Demiguise hair, which was distinctive for its dark grey colour. This cloak was light and fluid, like molten silver.

If he was right, Potter had had this thing since early third year, at least. He would never forget that floating head near the Shrieking Shack. And yet there was no sign of degradation; the normal wear and tear one might expect in a rare and fragile Invisibility Cloak in the hands of a schoolboy. No fading, no rips or tears. No shimmer, even, when it was in use.

“You don’t exist,” he told it, and looked down to read the rest of Potter’s note.

 _Hope you slept well. I’m looking forward to our date today!_ There was another smiley face, this one with what could only be described as a _wink_ , and then Harry had signed his name, finishing with a kiss.

“In your dreams, Potter,” Draco muttered, but he couldn’t help tracing the kiss.

Then, irresistibly, his eyes were drawn back up the page. _Only my closest friends_ , he read again. An Invisibility Cloak made of some otherworldly material, with no obvious magical means of becoming invisible, and showing no signs of degradation in three years...

No. No. The Deathly Hallows were a bedtime story for children. A morality lesson.

And yet, if Draco remembered his genealogies correctly, the Potters (a prestigious, unbroken pureblood line before James Potter had married a Muggleborn; one of the oldest Light families in wizarding Britain) were descended from the Peverell line, believed by some to be the subject of that same legend.

And now Potter had revealed the Cloak’s existence to him. On purpose. If he used that, if he took it to the Dark Lord…

Draco stared down at it, twisting the fabric in his hands. Just the mere fact of its existence might be enough to win the Dark Lord’s forgiveness, whether or not he succeeded in his task. It might even be enough to win back their place at his side. To have his father rescued from prison, and reclaim their home. To guarantee his mother’s safety.

“What in Salazar’s name, Potter,” he whispered. Surely, _surely_ he knew Draco was a Death Eater? Certainly he knew it was Draco who had poisoned the wine that had almost killed Weasley, part of a plan he was carrying out for the Dark Lord inside Potter’s beloved Hogwarts.

_I don’t understand you._

And Potter’s reply came back to him, just as clearly. _I know._

Draco folded the Cloak carefully, applied a Shrinking Charm to it, and put it in his pocket. Potter’s school cloak and jumper followed the same way, and then he pointed his wand at Vince.

“ _Finite_.”

Vince came awake with a loud grunt, and Draco nudged him. “Get up, you great oaf,” he said, feeling strangely euphoric. He couldn’t even blame it on tiredness, today, because he felt remarkably well-rested. Energised, even. His mother had always referred to the old pureblood courtship ritual as a dance – _the very finest dance there is_ – and for the first time, he thought he knew what she meant. He smiled. “I’ve got a date today.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone leaving comments and kudos, I really appreciate it! xx

**CHAPTER THREE  
**

**THAT DISASTROUS FIRST DATE**

_Let us dance in the sun, wearing wild flowers in our hair,_  
 _And let us huddle together, as darkness takes over_  
~ Susan Polis Shutz

Part One

Saturday dawned bright and warm, with cloudless skies and just a hint of a cool breeze. May was beckoning; the fresh, sweet scent of spring drifting in through the open windows at the top of Gryffindor tower. Harry tugged uncomfortably at the collar of his robes.

“Are you sure I don’t look ridiculous?” he said.

“You look fine, Harry,” Hermione assured him for the third time, running a proprietary eye down the length of his robes. She coloured slightly, coughed, and looked away. “I mean, uh, you look – fine.”

“What she means is, you don’t look _completely_ ridiculous, mate,” Ron said, helpfully.

“Oh, brilliant, thanks,” Harry said.

“What I _mean_ , Ronald, is that he looks _stunning_ ,” Hermione snapped, and Ron flushed bright red.

“Don’t worry, Potter,” Parkinson said, calmly. “Draco will love the robes.” She brushed at his sleeve idly, and Harry tried not to flinch away. He sincerely doubted there was anything to remove; they’d fussed over him for what felt like _hours_ already. That, after spending half the night curled up with Draco Malfoy, and he was feeling uncommonly twitchy.

He took a tiny side-step away, hoping she wouldn’t notice. It wasn’t anything personal. He was grateful for her help, and he had no desire to offend her. Seamus would never forgive him, for starters, and that was the least of what was at stake.

“Thanks, Parkinson,” he said, waving a hand awkwardly. “For all of this.”

She smiled slightly. “Call me Pansy. And there’s no need to thank me. I told Finnigan I would help any way I could, and I intend to. We’re in this together.” Harry looked at her in surprise, and she arched an eyebrow. “I won’t play coy with you, Potter. We both know the reason you’re courting Draco.”

Harry nodded. He hadn’t expected such candor from her, but then again, she was the one who had orchestrated this whole plan. She was uniquely invested in the outcome.

He left the tower at precisely nine twenty-five, and by nine twenty-nine, he was trotting down the marble steps of the Great Staircase. Malfoy had just passed through the front doors into the grounds beyond, white-blond hair gleaming in the bright sunshine. Crabbe and Goyle were half a step behind him, as always.

“Draco!” he called, hurrying across the crowded Entrance Hall.

Students turned and stared. Malfoy stiffened, and his two goons cracked their knuckles menacingly. “I thought I told you not to call me that,” he said coldly, his back to Harry.

“Sorry,” Harry said, smiling. “I forgot. Did you sleep well?”

Malfoy turned, then, and his reaction was entirely gratifying. He did a classic double-take, and then his eyelids fell, shuttering his expression. He looked Harry over slowly. “I did,” he said finally.

Harry smiled. “May I walk with you to Hogsmeade?”

“This,” Malfoy waved a hand that encompassed Harry from his carefully groomed hair and lack of glasses – with temporary eye charms – to his new, fitted summer robes and polished shoes, “was for my benefit?”

“Yes,” Harry said.

“Very well, then,” Malfoy agreed. “Since you clearly went to so much effort to make yourself presentable.”

It was obviously meant as a backhanded compliment, but it was the nicest thing Malfoy had ever said to him, and Harry found himself grinning stupidly. “Great.” And then, genuinely, “You look nice, too.” He looked Malfoy up and down again. “Well. I mean. _Gorgeous_ , really.”

And he meant it. Even painfully thin, his fair skin dull and dark circles under his eyes, Malfoy was still gorgeous. A tiny flame in Harry’s chest fanned to life, and he thought idly that when the time came, he wouldn’t mind taking Malfoy to his bed at _all_.

“Save it, Potter,” Malfoy said dryly, but he looked pleased.

Harry fell into step with him, and Malfoy’s hulking bodyguards faded into the background. Harry glanced back to see them following discreetly, just out of earshot. “Your friends have hidden depths,” he said.

Malfoy eyed him sideways. “As do you, apparently.”

“I’ve never been who you think I am,” Harry retorted. “Power-hungry, or a glory hound; _eager_ to have my face splashed across the media, like it’s _fun_ to be a celebrity.”

Malfoy smirked, and said, “You’re not still harping on about those interviews I gave Skeeter in fourth year, are you? Sure I didn’t cut a little too close to home, Potter?”

Harry just smirked back at him, pleased by the return of some of that old Malfoy antagonism. “Not at all,” he replied. “Anyway, as I recall, you got your just desserts in the end.”

Malfoy stopped abruptly in the middle of the lane, scowling. “You might want to think twice before you gloat about the time you and your sidekicks hexed me and left me for _dead_ on our _date_ , Potter.”

Harry, who had continued on for several paces before realising Malfoy was no longer at his side, turned. He found himself staring, struck anew by just how _beautiful_ Malfoy was. Those brilliant, furious grey eyes... “You were nowhere near dead,” he said. Malfoy opened his mouth in outrage, and Harry pre-empted him. “I’m really glad you decided to come with me today, you know,” he said.

Malfoy hesitated. “Well,” he said, after a moment. “I had to return your clothes.” His tone implied it was the only reason he had agreed to the date, but Harry had expected that.

He took the three hanky-sized garments Malfoy held out to him without hesitation, catching hold of Malfoy’s long, elegant fingers before he could withdraw them. His own fingers lingered over the soft, vulnerable palm for a moment, and then he closed his hand around Malfoy’s wrist, tugging him closer.

Malfoy’s breath hitched. “Let go, Potter.”

Harry took a step forward to meet him instead, slipping his left arm around Malfoy’s waist, holding him in place as he insinuated his other hand into Malfoy’s light, flowing summer robes. He was a little surprised by just how difficult that was, with several different layers, but entirely unsurprised to find typical pureblood clothing underneath – the tunic-style clothing often worn in the warmer months.

It was gratifyingly short, and Harry had his hand on Malfoy’s bare inner thigh before the other boy could take a breath.

“ _Potter_!” Malfoy hissed, looking around in panic.

“Mm,” Harry replied distractedly, focused on his lips. “May I kiss you now?”

“No, you certainly may not!” Malfoy snapped.

“Pretty please?” Harry murmured, and a bucket-load of ice water was dumped unceremoniously over his head. He jumped away with an unmanly shriek, wand out instinctively and searching for the culprit. Both Crabbe and Goyle were still some distance away, and there was no one else within wand-range. He stared at Malfoy in betrayal.

Malfoy just raised an eyebrow, tucking his wand back into his sleeve. “Keep it in your pants, Potter. And keep your hands to yourself, or I’ll make sure you do. Understood?”

“You might have warned me of that _before_ you dumped ice on me,” Harry complained, legs crossed in an attempt to warm his ill-used testicles. His teeth were chattering. “I mean, b-bloody h-hell, Malfoy.”

“You’re welcome,” Malfoy said, and walked on.

~*~

Hogsmeade was packed with students, every single one of them determined to enjoy the last outing of the year. Even the seventh-years were taking advantage of the opportunity to relax and have a little fun. To forget – if only for a little while – that inside their safe haven, NEWTS were rapidly approaching, and outside, the world teetered on the brink of war.

The Three Broomsticks was heaving with loud, rowdy students. Draco bypassed the popular pub, leading Potter instead to the Hog’s Head Inn, where it was dark and quiet.

They garnered a few suspicious looks from the shady-looking patrons, but Draco just raised a single eyebrow, glancing around the room with a bored gaze, and suddenly they were all absorbed in their drinks again.

“I wish I could do that,” Potter said, and his voice wasn’t so much envious as longing.

Draco looked at him in surprise. “I’d offer to teach you, but I’m afraid it’s not something that can be learned. It’s a product of birth, and a long, long line of Dark ancestors. The Malfoys are not to be trifled with. Only the very foolish forget that.”

Potter quirked a grin. “Are you calling me foolish, Malfoy?”

“Not at all,” Draco returned lightly, catching the proprietor’s attention with a raised finger. “Two butterbeers,” he said, and then waved Potter toward a table in one of the many shadowy corners. “You grew up in the Muggle world. You can’t forget what you’ve never learnt.”

“Oh, so not foolish, then, just ignorant?” Potter asked. His eyes were dancing, amused, and the dim light caught them in such a way that the green actually _sparkled_. Draco stared, and somehow he didn’t even notice Potter had taken a seat until he cleared his throat.

Draco scowled, and jerked out the other chair. “Why in Salazar’s name did I agree to this again?” he said, irritably.

“Because you’re attracted to me?” Potter offered. Draco just stared at him stonily. “You are,” Potter insisted, with a pointed flick of his eyes downward.

“I’m gay,” Draco said, coldly. “Not to mention sixteen years old, with a healthy libido. A boy with… passably good looks, I suppose, had his hand in close proximity to my cock. It was an entirely natural reaction.”

“Oh.” Potter looked strangely crushed, and Draco found himself wondering, bizarrely, about Pansy’s mad theory.

After a suitable pause, during which their butterbeers arrived at the table, he asked, “Why do you care?” He was justifiably proud of his off-hand tone, and continued as casually as possible, “Apart from wanting to get me in the sack, of course.”

Potter blushed, and Draco sighed. It really _had_ been an entirely natural reaction, under the circumstances. Still, he could have done without giving the already-conceited git confirmation that his disturbing little attraction was returned. (Because it was returned, unfortunately. He’d admired Potter’s arse from afar for much, much longer than he cared to think about.)

“Sorry,” Potter said, awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to make you think – I mean, of course I – but that’s not _why_. I mean, you’re very – but – oh Merlin.” He grinned disarmingly, and Draco resisted the urge to reach out and run his fingers down the smooth line of Potter’s jaw. “I just want – well, this is good right now. Great, I mean,” he corrected himself hastily.

“We’re drinking butterbeer at the Hog’s Head,” Draco said. “It’s hardly unusual, if perhaps a little tame.”

“Well, it’s unusual for me,” Potter said, frankly. “Anyway, it’s your company I wanted, whether we came here or went to The Three Broomsticks.” He looked at Draco curiously. “Why _did_ we –?”

“The whole school is already talking about your alleged infatuation,” Draco said. “I just preferred not to be made a spectacle of, thank you very much.”

Potter regarded him sombrely. “Am I putting you in danger? If your father were to hear…?”

Draco stiffened. “What do you imagine my father can do from Azkaban, Potter?”

“Voldemort, then –”

Draco jerked backwards, almost knocking his chair over. The other patrons of the pub looked up at the noise, and he glared. “What the fuck is _wrong_ with –?”

“Sorry!” Potter held up a hand. “I’m sorry, Draco! I forget, sometimes.”

“Don’t call me that,” Draco said, but without much force. He shook his head. “This was a bad idea.”

Potter smiled. “Of course it was,” he said. “War is coming, and you and I are on opposite sides. Your master wants me dead –” Draco twitched, and Potter continued, “and you’re out of my league, anyway.”

Draco stared at him, taken aback. “What?”

“You heard me,” Potter said. “Unless you’re fishing for more?” He rested his chin in one hand, looking at Draco in a way that made him feel decidedly warm. “Everything about you is beautiful. I’ve always loved your hair, especially when you leave it loose around your face. I love your eyes, the way they flash at me when you’re angry, how they’re so – so _soft_ , and gentle, when you look at Parkinson, or when you’re so exhausted you can hardly keep them open –”

“Potter,” Draco said.

Harry held up a finger. “I’m not finished,” he said, and Draco found himself closing his mouth again despite himself. “I love your skin; so soft, like silk, or – or buttermilk... I want to touch you so badly, to hold you close and –”

“Merlin.” Draco’s hand shot out to cover Potter’s lips, to stop him _talking_. “That’s enough. You _are_ under the influence of something. It’s the only explanation.” He felt relieved and yet, somehow, disappointed. “We should get you back to school, take you to see Madam Pomfrey –”

“Is it so hard to believe that someone might fancy you without some kind of potion?”

Draco glared at him, insulted. “I’ve had lovers,” he snapped. “None of whom were under any kind of influence.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Potter said, but he didn’t seem inclined to press the issue. “Do you want another drink?”

“No,” Draco said, standing. “I need to pick something up from the post office, and drop into The Three Broomsticks. And then I need to get back. I’ve wasted enough time away from my – from Hogwarts, today.”

“It’s been good for you, though,” Potter said, ignoring Draco’s almost-slip. He stood, reaching out to clasp Draco’s upper arm briefly. “And I appreciate it.”

Draco shivered a little. “You’re touching me again, Potter.”

“So I am,” Potter said. He grinned, executing a short – and entirely plebeian – bow. “After you, Malfoy.”

~*~

The post office stood opposite Zonko’s Joke Shop, which, like so many others on Main Street, had been closed for business since the previous year. Only Honeydukes was still thriving, and Harry watched as a group of fifth-year girls burst out of the sweet-shop, giggling and passing out Fizzing Whizbees and Pepper Imps.

The Fizzing Whizbees made a couple of them levitate several feet into the air, and they shrieked with laughter, trying to navigate the street while clinging to their friends. Harry caught sight of red hair in the middle of the group, and he waved.

Ginny waved back, grinning and rolling her eyes at her friends’ antics.

Harry returned the grin, and then started to turn away. But she held his gaze, her friends streaming past her, and Harry was just beginning to feel a bit awkward when the door to the post office tinkled. Malfoy emerged holding a brown paper package, and, relieved – though not entirely sure why – Harry broke eye contact with Ginny.

“What’s in the package?” he asked, peering over Malfoy’s shoulder. He frowned. The brown paper had WWW stamped on it – Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. He’d have to talk to the twins about screening their customers more closely. Some of their products could be dangerous in the wrong hands. “You had it delivered from London? I didn’t know they did that.”

“Leave off, Potter,” Malfoy warned.

Harry held up his hands. “Okay, sorry. Forget I asked.”

Ginny and her group of friends had disappeared, and Harry strolled down the street with Malfoy, just enjoying the sunshine. When they reached The Three Broomsticks, however, he winced. It was so crowded it appeared to be standing room only, and there were _still_ people trying to struggle inside.

“Sure you want to go in?”

“I’m sure,” Malfoy said, evenly.

Harry considered the pub again. There were a couple of men in Ministry robes trying to shoulder their way in through the door. Either they’d travelled all the way from London for a midday tipple, or someone had called the Hit Wizards in for overcrowding. He was leaning toward the latter. “Want me to come in with you?” he offered. “You might need protection in that lot.”

“Oh, sod off,” Malfoy said, but there was no real bite to his voice.

Harry grinned. “Only if I get a penalty.”

“A penalty?” Malfoy sighed. “What, Potter?”

“You’re ending our date early,” Harry explained. “Blowing me off. I think I deserve a penalty for that. A kiss, at the very least.”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. “You want a kiss because I’m _blowing you off_?”

“Yes?” Harry said, disingenuously. He took a step forward, crowding Malfoy back against the wall of the pub, out of sight of the customers. “Just one?” he coaxed, pressing in until his body was flush against Malfoy’s.

The Weasleys’ package dropped, unnoticed, to the ground. “One, then. But don’t think this means anything,” Malfoy warned, breathlessly.

Harry leaned in the rest of the way, covering Malfoy’s mouth with his own. Their lips slipped and caught sweetly, and there was a tug just below Harry’s navel, as if he’d picked up a Portkey by accident – but lower, warmer. He moaned, sliding his fingers into the hair at Malfoy’s nape, pulling his head back and biting his way inside that wet mouth.

Malfoy gasped, body arching up into Harry’s, eyes fluttering closed almost as if against his will. His mouth opened wider as Harry ravaged him with tongue and teeth. He whimpered when Harry pulled away at last, and Harry used his other hand to cup Malfoy’s cock through his robes.

“Just one, yeah?” he whispered into Malfoy’s ear.

“Fucking _tease_ ,” Malfoy said, and ground himself into Harry’s palm, shuddering.

Harry gripped him a little tighter, and then deliberately let go. He didn’t move away, though. “May I walk you back to Hogwarts, when you’re done?” he asked. “I’ve got some shopping to do, but it won’t take longer than ten minutes.”

Malfoy tilted his head back, thumping it gently against the wall. Harry wanted to bite his long, pale neck. “Damn you, Potter.”

“Is that a yes?”

“Oh, very well,” Malfoy said impatiently, but there was a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Harry couldn’t resist a quick nuzzle under that tempting jaw. “Sorry,” he said, stepping back.

Malfoy glowered at him, using his wand to cast a number of quick grooming spells to smooth down his rumpled robes and that beautiful hair – and, yes, to ease himself of a rather prominent erection. Harry stifled his smile, shielding him instinctively from any passers-by. Somehow he knew that Malfoy might forgive him for messing up that carefully-cultivated image, but exposing the intimate results to the public eye? Never.

“I’ll meet you back here in ten minutes,” he said.

Malfoy turned on his heel without responding, and Harry wandered off in the other direction, whistling.

He felt incredibly pleased with himself. The Plan was progressing much faster than he’d thought it would. Just a couple of days ago, Malfoy had been adamantly against even going on a date with him, and now Harry had had his lips on Malfoy’s lips, his hand on Malfoy’s cock – through his robes, true enough, but – Merlin, even that had been _so_ _good_.

And for that brief moment of eternity when they’d kissed, he’d forgotten everything. Voldemort, the prophecy, the war. The Room of Requirement, even. It was nothing like Cho. It was nothing like Justin.

He was going to _enjoy_ this.

~*~

He had doubled back to the post office to pick up a package of his own, and was just coming out when he heard the shout.

“HARRY!”

Ron was sprinting towards him with an expression of such terror, Harry was forcibly reminded of their second year encounter with the Acromantulas. His first thought was for Hermione, and he was running towards his friend before he’d even registered the words Ron was shouting.

“It’s Malfoy! He’s being attacked!”

Icy fear trickled down his spine and settled in his gut. Why was Ron panicking over _Malfoy_?

The Three Broomsticks was a scene of utter chaos; students spilling out of the pub, others trying to push their way inside. One of the front windows was blown out, and the crunch of glass was audible over the screams and shouts of the crowd.

Harry couldn’t see what was going on. It was tightly-packed around the window, students pushing for a better view, a group of stupid, over-excited third year boys shouting “Fight! Fight!” from the back, and a few adults trying desperately (and uselessly) to disperse them all. Two tiny girls who looked like first years were curled up against a wall, bruised and bloody, their arms over their heads as the crowd surged and roiled around them.

“I’ll get them,” Ron said, grimly determined. “Hermione’s in the middle of that lot, trying to help Malfoy.”

Harry nodded, and, after a moment of thought, cast a thick bubble around himself that would act like a cushion, bouncing people away from him. He managed to push his way to the centre of the heaving crowd before a greater force stopped him just on the edge.

It was some kind of protective enchantment, or shield. He could feel Hermione’s magical signature pulsing through it.

Inside, she had just spun to stand over a mangled body, a sickeningly enormous pool of blood spraying the hems of her jeans as she turned. She held two wands, one of which was resolutely pointed at the crowd, the other in the process of trying to bind a crazed Justin Finch-Fletchley.

Madam Rosmerta was standing just inside the window, looking lost. Justin was at her feet, just barely being restrained by one of the Hit Wizards. He looked like a wild animal, teeth bared, face flushed, eyes reddened and puffed with rage. The other Hit Wizard was backed against the window frame, looking shell-shocked and whimpering, hands clasped over his mouth.

“Hermione?”

“Harry, oh thank Merlin!” she gasped out. She didn’t take her eyes or her wand off Finch-Fletchley. “Help Malfoy!”

Harry frowned, looking around. And then it sunk in. The body she was standing over, that mangled piece of flesh and blood – that was _Malfoy_ –

“Everybody stand back! Get _back_!” he shouted, and a wind whipped up around him that blew everyone back several paces.

The shock was enough to bring most of them to their senses. Then Hermione lowered the shield and he was on his knees beside Malfoy, and everything else ceased to matter.

“Malfoy?” he murmured, running a hand tentatively over the white-blond hair. It was soaked with blood, a deep, ugly gash running from his forehead around his ear to the nape of his neck. His face was as pale as death, and he looked strangely twisted; taut and strained with pain, even unconscious. His body twitched convulsively – the unmistakeable after-shocks of the Cruciatus Curse. _Fuck_. What the hell had happened here?

“His _leg_ , Harry,” Hermione prompted, her voice strangely high-pitched.

Harry let his eyes travel down, almost unwillingly, to see where the pool of blood was coming from. Malfoy’s right leg had been practically severed from his body. Blood was pulsing sluggishly from the wound. It had already soaked into Harry’s robes.

“ _Merlin_ ,” he said, trying to staunch the blood with his hands. When that didn’t work, he tore off his outer robes and used them instead, packing them against the wound. If it could even be called a wound; it was so deep he could see _bone_ –

“Stupid boy!” someone said, pushing at him. “Get out of the way!”

Harry looked up, and gave an involuntary sob of relief; he’d never been so happy to see Snape in his entire life. The professor dropped to his knees, already casting. Harry recognised a few; diagnostic spells, like the ones Madam Pomfrey sometimes used, and then some healing charms that sounded vaguely familiar. Clotting spells, sealing spells, spells to re-grow muscle and tissue. None given enough time to work properly, even if they had been supplemented with the appropriate potions.

It was a hurried, slap-dash attempt at stabilising Malfoy enough for transport, Harry thought, but at least his leg looked like it belonged to him again.

Snape had pulled Harry’s blood-soaked robes away from the wound so he could work, and Harry slipped them on absently, watching as Snape cast _Ferula_ , the spell to ease pain and splint broken limbs. He realised Draco’s other leg was broken in several places, as well as the fingers of his left hand. The broken bones slowly began to shift back into place under Snape’s ministrations, and Malfoy relaxed out of his stiff curl, but he didn’t wake up.

Harry’s mouth filled with bile. How could one body sustain that much damage and survive?

Then Snape scooped him up his arms, and Harry winced at the cry Malfoy gave, even unconscious. Snape threw a contemptuous look at the two Hit Wizards. “I trust you can get Mr Finch-Fletchley back to Hogwarts without mishap, Miss Granger?” he said, pointedly.

“Yes, sir,” she agreed, standing a little taller.

Snape spared her a curt nod before setting off to Hogwarts at a brisk pace that was all but a run. Harry hurried to catch up. “Don’t you have better things to do with your time, Potter?” Snape said brusquely, when he realised Harry was still at his side.

“Not really, sir,” Harry said.

Snape’s eyebrows snapped together, but he didn’t argue, and they hurried on to Hogwarts in a silence heavy with unspoken fear.

~*~

An hour later ( _was it really only an hour?_ Hermione wondered) she found herself sitting with Ron on one of the hard benches outside the infirmary. A group of sixth-year Slytherins sat opposite them. Pansy, of course, with Zabini crowded close to her side, and Seamus hovering over them, and Crabbe and Goyle, Bulstrode, Greengrass, and Nott.

“You okay?” Ron asked, quietly.

“Fine,” she said. “Where have you been?”

“Two first-years got caught up in the mob,” he explained, quietly. “Merlin knows what they thought they were doing in Hogsmeade. I couldn’t get much out of them. They were hysterical. I just tried to calm them down a bit, cast a few _Episkeys_ , and got them here on the double. I think they’ll be okay.”

“Indeed,” Dumbledore said, in his deep, calm voice. Hermione looked up to see him standing in the open doorway to the infirmary.

She shot to her feet. “Headmaster!” she gasped. Everyone else was close behind, almost stepping on her heels in their eagerness. “What’s happening? Is there news? Where’s Harry?”

“Harry is with Mr Malfoy,” Dumbledore said, gently. “And I am pleased to say that the two young ladies you rescued are doing well, Mr Weasley. They are being treated for shock, but their injuries were nothing worse than bruises and a couple of broken bones. Easily fixed. I am hopeful they will see this as a lesson learned. However, you deserve a commendation for your courage, Mr Weasley, and I will see to it that it is put in your school record and your parents informed.”

Ron flushed bright red, and Hermione squeezed his arm.

“That’s all very well, but what about Draco?” Pansy bit out, sharp and impatient.

“Ah.” The Headmaster turned shrewd eyes on the group of Slytherins, and Hermione was disconcerted to see his gaze cool by several degrees. It made her uncomfortable. She had begun to think of Pansy as an ally, and her anxiety was evident to everyone. “Madam Pomfrey is treating him now, Miss Parkinson. So far, his prognosis is – uncertain. He will be in no fit state to receive you today, if at all.”

Hermione sucked in a breath. Considering how much blood Malfoy had lost, how damaged his body had been, it shouldn’t have been a surprise. But, still. She’d hoped.

She snuck a glance at the Slytherins, who were standing very still, their faces immobile. She could have sworn that not a single one had moved since Dumbledore had actually deigned to notice them, but somehow they were all now standing within mere inches of each other. Only Seamus looked a little awkward, hovering on the outskirts of the group.

“I would advise you to return to your House,” Dumbledore said. “Professor Snape will keep you informed.”

It was clearly a command. Pansy’s face whitened, but she turned and left. Her friends followed.

“Now,” Dumbledore said, voice gentling as he turned to Ron and Hermione, “would you be willing to tell me what happened? I am afraid we have been able to make very little sense out of the two young girls, and unfortunately the two Ministry representatives have been sequestered by Aurors for questioning. Mr Potter has told me what he could, but he didn’t see what actually transpired between Mr Malfoy and Mr Finch-Fletchley.” Hermione nodded, and Dumbledore smiled. “Thank you. Please, do take a seat. You look exhausted.”

Hermione sank back down onto the bench gratefully, realising that the Headmaster was right. “It happened very quickly, sir,” she said. “We saw Justin being pulled aside by the two men from the Ministry. I don’t know what they told him, but it looked like bad news –”

“I’m afraid it was,” Dumbledore sighed. “Justin’s mother and young sister were killed this morning in a targeted Death Eater raid on their home.”

“Oh, no.” Tears sprang to Hermione’s eyes. Ron put his arm around her shoulders, and she leaned into him, wondering desperately how many more people would have to die before this senseless war was over. Her eyes caught on the rust-colour of the hems of her jeans, and she felt sick. “Justin’s mother was a Muggle, wasn’t she?”

Dumbledore nodded. “His sister Paige, too. She was only thirteen, but I believe she was something of a child prodigy in music. Her family, both wizarding and Muggle sides, were very proud of her.”

 _It’s not fair_ , Hermione thought.

“His father is a Hit Wizard with the Ministry,” Dumbledore continued. “They received the news first, of course, and Mr Finch was understandably stricken with grief. Two of his co-workers took it upon themselves to come up to Hogwarts to tell young Justin the news.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open. “But, sir, surely –?”

“I believe they had good intentions. They were going to bring him to his father. But it was not at all standard procedure, and they will be formally reprimanded,” Dumbledore agreed. “I have already received an owl from Minister Scrimgeour. He apologises sincerely for the oversight that led to such a tragedy.”

 _Oversight?_ Hermione mouthed in disgust.

Ron said with sudden vehemence, “Fucking V-Voldemort!”

Hermione blinked. That was the first time she’d ever heard him say Voldemort’s name out loud, and it made her swell with pride.

Dumbledore inclined his head. “I would not normally tolerate such language, Mr Weasley, but under the circumstances, I am inclined to echo the sentiment. Miss Granger, if you would continue?”

“Yes, sir. Justin went tearing out the back of the pub. It makes sense now, I suppose – he was probably looking for somewhere to be alone, to – to grieve. But not two minutes later, Draco Malfoy walked in, and Justin ran in after him. He – he screamed something about his mother and sister, and Death Eaters – and Harry –”

“Harry?” Dumbledore said, his bushy white eyebrows almost in his hairline.

“I don’t know, sir,” Hermione said, helplessly. “It all happened so fast, and he was mostly incoherent. He was crying. It was so horrible.”

“He said something about kissing,” Ron said, abruptly. “I remember that, because it was odd.”

Hermione’s heart sank. She risked a glance at the Headmaster, and found him waiting, perceptive blue eyes on her. She sighed. “Um. You probably know that Harry and Justin dated earlier this year, for about a month? Anyway, Harry and – and Malfoy were on a date this morning.”

Dumbledore’s eyes widened slightly. “I see. Very well, go on.”

“Justin cast the Cruciatus Curse at Malfoy’s back. Malfoy went crashing through the window. Everyone started screaming. People were panicking, trying to get out, probably scared it was a Death Eater attack. Justin held Malfoy under the Cruciatus Curse, and Ron tried to stop him, but the two Hit Wizards kept getting in the way. One of them was trying to stop the stampede, and the other one was trying to talk Justin down, I think... He kept saying it wasn’t Justin’s fault, that he was acting under grief, but Malfoy was being _tortured_ , so I sent Ron to find Harry while I tried to distract Justin. I knew, with all the noise, it would have to be a visual distraction, so I managed to get between him and Malfoy. He looked almost – _deranged_ , really, and he couldn’t hold onto his wand when I cast _Expelliarmus_.”

“Hermione,” Ron whispered.

She shook her head miserably. “That’s when I made a terrible mistake. It was chaos. There were people _stepping_ on Malfoy, kicking him… I turned to try to help him, and that’s when Justin got hold of another wand. I think he snatched it from one of the Hit Wizards. He – he cast _Diffindo_. Twice. He was so angry, he must have put _everything_ he had into it.” She shuddered. “I knew Malfoy didn’t have long. Blood was _gushing_ out, and I cast a spell to slow it down, but I had to make containing Justin my priority. I managed to bind him in place until one of the Hit Wizards could restrain him, and then I was able to get to Malfoy and hold off the crowd. And then Harry got through and made the crowd leave, and Professor Snape arrived. They took Malfoy, and I tied Justin up and – well,” she flushed, “he was so upset, sir, I felt it best to render him unconscious before levitating him back to Hogwarts.”

“Very sensible,” Dumbledore assured her. “And indeed, very compassionate. What you did was remarkable. Your actions saved the lives of not one, but two boys, and possibly many others. I am proud of you.”

Hermione tried to smile. “Thank you, sir. May I ask… what’s going to happen to Justin?”

Dumbledore sighed. “Mr Finch-Fletchley is currently being questioned. He is not under arrest, but I am afraid he will likely be in the coming days, once the full facts of the case are known. He will not be spared a trial, not after what he has done. You are aware, I’m sure, that the sentence for use of an Unforgivable is a life sentence in Azkaban. However, you may be certain he will be treated with the utmost compassion by the authorities. He has experienced a terrible loss today.”

Hermione nodded, unable to prevent the tears from welling up.

“You’re overwrought,” Dumbledore said, apologetically. “Mr Weasley, if you would please escort her back to Gryffindor? Both of you should get some rest. Mr Potter will join you there shortly.”

“Yes, sir,” Ron said.

Hermione waited until the Headmaster had disappeared back into the infirmary before she turned to bury her face in Ron’s shoulder. She had Malfoy’s _blood_ on her jeans, and Justin was in Auror custody, grieving for his mother and little sister, and she was terrified that Voldemort had decided to go after individual homes now. As one of Harry Potter’s best friends, she wasn’t exactly low profile, and her parents could be in danger because of her.

Ron put his arms around her. “You okay?”

“No,” she admitted, lifting her head. “Not at all. But I’m better with you here.”

Ron smiled back at her, his eyes shining.


	7. Chapter 7

**CHAPTER THREE  
**

**THAT DISASTROUS FIRST DATE**

Part Two

Harry stared at the curtain that surrounded Malfoy’s bed, shifting uncomfortably on the hard wooden chair Madam Pomfrey had directed him to. Snape and Professor Vector were behind the curtain, too, but all he could hear were soft, frantic murmurs and the occasional shuffle as one of them shifted position.

Nothing from Malfoy; not even a groan of pain.

He twisted his hands together, and then frowned at the odd, crusty sensation. He looked down to find his hands and arms covered in blood, dried and flaking. There were dark, rusty circles on his jeans, splatter up his front, and the new, summer robes Pansy had bought him were ruined. Revolted, he scrabbled for his wand, casting _Scourgify_ after _Scourgify_ until his skin was raw and his clothes were thin and worn, and still he didn’t feel clean.

“Harry, my boy.”

Harry didn’t flinch, but it was a near thing. He shoved his hands in his pockets before he turned. “Yes, professor?”

Dumbledore blinked once at the sight of Harry’s robes, but his kind, calm expression never wavered. Still, Harry felt uncomfortable. This was Dumbledore’s third war. He’d probably seen it all; seen wizards under his command crack and shatter under the pressure. Scourgifying his hands until they bled? Harry was pretty sure that qualified.

“Your friends were waiting for you outside,” Dumbledore said. “I am afraid, however, that Miss Granger, in particular, was quite tired. I sent them back to Gryffindor to rest, and promised you would be along shortly.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Harry said, “I’m staying here until I know Malfoy is okay.”

Dumbledore peered at him over his half-moon spectacles, brows raised. “You surprise me, Harry. I had thought that your animosity for young Mr Malfoy was stronger than ever this year. Particularly due to your – ah, belief that he has joined Voldemort’s ranks as a Death Eater.”

Harry shrugged. “I still believe that. Doesn’t mean he deserved to be attacked like that.”

“Indeed.” Dumbledore eyed him thoughtfully. “Miss Granger mentioned that you were on a date with Mr Malfoy. Is that true?”

Harry stared at him, taken aback. The Headmaster was rarely this forthright with him; his interrogations were generally very predictable, progressing along the lines of ‘is there anything you’d like to tell me, Harry?’ and ‘well, I’m here if you ever change your mind’. “Yes?” he said, and then cleared his throat. “I mean, yes, sir. We were on a date.”

“And were you by any chance – er, ‘snogging’, behind The Three Broomsticks?”

Harry’s mouth dropped open. “How do you know _that_? Sir.”

Dumbledore looked apologetic. “It appears that Mr Finch-Fletchley was unfortunate enough to witness your encounter. This is speculation, of course, but after hearing that his mother and sister had been killed by Death Eaters, to see his old flame kissing the son of Voldemort’s right-hand man... possibly it was the final straw, and he lost control.”

Harry let that sink in, and then he dropped his head, digging his knuckles into his eyes. “You’re saying it was my fault.”

“Not at all, Harry,” Dumbledore chided, gently. “You cannot be held responsible for the actions of Voldemort’s Death Eaters. Nor Mr Finch-Fletchley’s subsequent, unprovoked attack on Mr Malfoy.”

Except that _he_ was the one who had dated Justin, Harry thought. He was the one who had decided to seduce Malfoy in the middle of Hogsmeade, in full view of anyone that happened around that corner. He was the Chosen One, in a world crying out for someone to save them from Voldemort. It was his responsibility, and he was nowhere near ready. And good people, innocent people like Justin’s mother and sister, kept dying while he hid like a coward behind Hogwarts’ wards.

“Harry,” Dumbledore said. “I will understand if you are not, perhaps, very interested in an old wizard’s memories from long ago. But please believe that I do understand the attraction of a... ‘bad boy’, as you young people say.”

Harry’s head jerked up, completely distracted from his self-flagellation. “Sir?”

Dumbledore smiled. “Indeed. It seems we have more in common than we thought. Including an apparent inclination towards those who would hurt us. And hurt I was, Harry. Worse, people I cared for were hurt. It ended very, very badly. I do not want to see you make that mistake, because it is something that will haunt you for the rest of your life.”

Harry shook his head. “I’m sorry that happened to you, sir. But it’s not like that with Malfoy and I.”

Dumbledore looked pointedly at the box of chocolates Harry had, somehow, managed to keep a hold of, along with Malfoy’s package.

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Harry said. “Really.”

“No?” Dumbledore said, gravely. “Well, I am pleased to hear it. But I must beg you to remember that war is coming. You must be extremely careful in whom you choose to place your trust. It may be tempting to open your heart to the person who shares your bed, to share your deepest secrets and darkest fears, but lovers may use that to betray you. And you must also remember that there are allegiances and motivations, undercurrents of war, that you know nothing of. You may cause devastating harm by continuing this liaison. To young Draco, and to countless others.”

Harry frowned. “I’ll keep that in mind, sir.”

“Good,” Dumbledore said, standing. “Now, I would prefer that you return to your House –”

“Not until I know Malfoy is all right,” Harry said, stubbornly.

“– but as you are clearly determined to stay, I will have a word with Madam Pomfrey,” Dumbledore concluded. He nodded at Harry and moved to Draco’s bed, twitching aside the curtain. There was a whispered conference, and then Professor Snape exited, glaring at Harry as he passed.

Dumbledore turned to gesture Harry over. “You may go in.”

Harry said, “Thanks,” and pulled a hand out of his pocket to push the curtain aside.

“Harry,” Dumbledore said, sharply.

Harry flinched, snatching his hand back. “It’s not – Malfoy’s blood was…” He trailed off, unable to find the words.

Dumbledore sighed. “I understand,” he said. “Would you like me to –?”

“No, thank you, sir,” Harry said quickly, and slipped through the gap in the curtains, away from the Headmaster’s too-knowing gaze. The pale, still figure in the infirmary bed caught his attention immediately, and he forgot all about Dumbledore and his painfully raw hands. “How is he?” he asked.

Madam Pomfrey spared him a curious glance, but her wand never stopped moving, and her reply was brisk and professional. “Mr Malfoy has sustained multiple fractures and contusions, including one to his right temple, and two deep wounds to his head and right thigh. The one to his thigh severed the femoral artery, and it’s entirely due to Miss Granger’s quick work that he didn’t bleed to death where he lay. As it is, he’s lost a great deal of blood, and the Cruciatus Curse has complicated the healing process. It’s going to be touch and go for a while yet.”

Harry swallowed. “He – he _will_ live, though, Madam Pomfrey?”

“If I didn’t think so, I would have sent him to St Mungo’s the moment he was stable enough for Floo travel,” she assured him. “And he _is_ stable, at least for now, which is the only reason I have allowed you in here. Professor Snape is retrieving some potions from his store. If you want to stay, I need you to take his place.”

“T-take his place?” Harry said, nervously eyeing the smooth, continuous motions of Madam Pomfrey’s wand, and the steady stream of pale blue light from Professor Vector’s wand. “I don’t know any Healing spells. I’ve never even used _Episkey_ –”

“Septima is providing sedation and airway management,” Madam Pomfrey said. She glanced at him briefly; reassurance in her quiet brown eyes. “I am healing the internal damage caused by the stampede, but I can’t provide pain management at the same time.”

Harry froze, staring at Malfoy. Now he knew what to look for, he could see the tiny, involuntary twitches. “He’s in pain?”

“Straight, downward flick with your wand, from eye-level to your belly-button,” Pomfrey said, gently. “ _Affero Narcoticum_.”

Harry got his wand out slowly, and did a few practice flicks. Madam Pomfrey nodded encouragingly, and he aimed at Malfoy, thinking that this was probably the first time in their six years of school that he’d pointed his wand at the other boy in good faith. Merlin only knew what Malfoy would think if he could see him now. “ _Affero Narcoticum_ ,” he said, careful with the inflections.

Madam Pomfrey sighed as Malfoy seemed to relax slightly. “Good,” she said, sounding relieved. “Good, Potter. That will last several minutes. Professor Snape should be back before it wears off again. Don’t cast it again unless I tell you to; it’s a dangerous spell.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry said. He edged closer to the bed. “May I touch him?”

She looked surprised, but nodded. “Carefully, mind.”

He reached out and took Malfoy’s right hand. “Were you able to fix the fractures?” he asked.

“I’m afraid they have been my lowest priority,” she said. “I will get to them in due course. Professor Snape has splinted them for the time being. And now, Mr Potter, I must ask that you be silent while I continue to work. This is far from over.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry murmured, and held on tighter.

~*~

He didn’t sleep, that night.

 _Septic shock_ , Madam Pomfrey had barked around four in the afternoon, and after that it had all been a blur. The physical healing of magically-sustained injuries apparently worked in much the same way as for normal injuries, but wizarding Healing was poles apart from Muggle medicine for the simple reason that wizards had magic running through their veins. And while a snapped bone could usually be re-set in an instant, complications such as infection could apparently arise just as quickly, especially with a body already weakened by the sustained use of a Dark curse.

By the time Malfoy was sleeping peacefully, wounds knitted up, bruises, fractures and internal injuries healed, and the infection finally, _finally_ gone, Madam Pomfrey was so visibly exhausted, Harry hadn’t the heart to ask about his hands.

He pulled up one of the hard wooden chairs to Malfoy’s bed instead, and promised to watch over him while Madam Pomfrey rested for a few hours.

The room was just brightening with the dawn when Malfoy woke. He was lying curled on his side, palm tucked, child-like, under his cheek. His eyes blinked open, and he met Harry’s gaze openly. “You look like shit,” he said.

“Thanks,” Harry said, dryly. He stretched, yawning, and Malfoy’s eyes widened.

“What the fuck happened to your _hands_ , Potter?”

Harry flushed, tucking them hurriedly into the folds of his robes. He kept forgetting. “Nothing,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

Malfoy frowned at him. “What the fuck is going on? Why am I in the infirmary? Why are _you_ here?”

Harry tried not to feel that like a slap to the face. After all, Malfoy didn’t know about the harrowing hour he’d spent watching that curtain, wondering if he was even going to _survive_ , and then hours more as Madam Pomfrey, Professor Vector and Snape fought the complicating effects of the Cruciatus Curse. “You were attacked,” he said. The scar running from Malfoy’s forehead down past his right ear was an ugly red against his pale skin. “You don’t remember?”

“I remember we were in Hogsmeade,” Malfoy said slowly. “You kissed me.”

“You kissed me back.”

Malfoy eyed him sceptically. “I remember you being a _cock_ tease,” he said, pointedly. “What I don’t remember is how you ruined your robes or blistered your hands.”

“You were attacked,” Harry said, weakly. “The blood – it wouldn’t come off.”

“Blood,” Malfoy echoed. He reached forward and gripped Harry’s left wrist, tugging it out. “What did you do, scrub them clean with jux venom?”

Harry smirked a little, even as his face flamed red with embarrassment. “Better than ice-water freezing my bits off,” he retorted.

Malfoy’s lips twitched. “Only if you were a masochist, Potter, could either of those options be the least palatable. Give me your other hand. I’ve some rudimentary skill with skin-deep healing spells.”

Harry grimaced, but held out his hands obediently.

Malfoy made a slight motion, as if trying to shake his wand out of his robes. But of course, his robes had been cut off him the day before, and replaced with a shapeless infirmary gown, so no wand fell into his hand. “Where is it, Potter?” he snapped, suddenly tense.

Harry gestured at the side table, where he’d put the chocolates and Malfoy’s WWW package. The wand was half-hidden under the package.

Malfoy snatched it up with evident relief. “Why am I here?” he asked again, waving it over Harry’s hands. “ _Concresco._ _Confervo_.”

It was a nice wand, Harry thought; made of a polished, light wood, about 10 inches long. Entirely functional, yet so slender and elegant and beautiful it might as well have been a work of art. It suited him.

“You were badly injured,” he said, curling his hands into fists gently. He was relieved and reluctantly impressed by the lack of pain. His hands were still red, but at least they felt less like raw meat now. “Really bad. Justin Finch-Fletchley attacked you. If it wasn’t for Hermione, and Snape, and then Madam Pomfrey… She worked all night to heal you.”

The blood rushed from Malfoy’s face. “What do you mean, _all night_?”

“Hey,” Harry said, startled. “What’s wrong?”

“What day is it?” Malfoy said, frantically. “How long have I been out?”

Harry frowned. “Just since yesterday.”

“Did I –” Malfoy grabbed handfuls of Harry’s robes, eyes wild. “When was I attacked?”

Harry blinked, resisting the urge to pry his hands off his robes. “Uh. Yesterday?”

“Idiot!” Malfoy snarled. He looked on the verge of a full breakdown. Or murder. “ _When_ yesterday? I don’t remember anything!”

“Oh,” Harry said. He still wasn’t clear on what, exactly, Malfoy wanted to know, but he tried. “You’d just walked into the pub?”

“Is that a _question_?” Malfoy demanded, voice rising. “Fuck’s sake, Potter –!”

“No,” Harry said, covering Malfoy’s hands with his own. “Not a question. I wasn’t there, but they say you walked in, and Justin ran in right after you. He attacked you immediately. Drew his wand on you from behind.” He hesitated. “I think it’s my fault. Because – because Justin and I –”

But Malfoy wasn’t listening. “I’d only just walked in,” he said, numbly. He wrenched his hands away, buried his head in them.

Harry stared at him, feeling as helpless as he had last night, when things had gotten so bad that Madam Pomfrey had been on the verge of sending Malfoy to St. Mungo’s. “Malfoy,” he said, perching on the edge of the bed. He tugged on Malfoy’s shoulder. “ _Draco_.” He wasn’t sure what he expected, but when Malfoy folded into him and began to cry, that _definitely_ wasn’t it.

Harry sat frozen, trying to convince himself to put his arms around the other boy.

Less than a week ago, Malfoy had vehemently denied ever crying, and yet now here he was, great, gasping sobs shaking his thin frame so hard that, in the end, Harry was forced to draw him right into his lap just to keep hold of him. He was raw, and open, and vulnerable _,_ in a way Harry had never even thought possible. It was… awkward, to say the least. He wasn’t unfamiliar with hugging, of course. Hermione had introduced it to him, early on at Hogwarts. And Mrs Weasley sometimes hugged him, and Sirius, of course. He’d only ever actually initiated them with Hermione, though, and then only very rarely. Ron was more the backslapping type, and Sirius – well. He’d always thought they would have more time.

This wasn’t even a hug. It might have been easier if it had been. Instead, it was _intimate_ ; more so, even, than the night Malfoy had fallen asleep in his arms.

Embarrassed and uncomfortable, Harry tried making the little, wordless noises Hermione used on him. It always comforted him, but he wasn’t sure Malfoy could hear him over the heaving, terrified sobs. So he tightened his arms and nuzzled into Malfoy’s soft hair instead. “It’s going to be okay,” he murmured.

“It is _not_ going to be okay, you bloody _moron_ ,” Malfoy snapped, pulling back. His face was red and blotchy, and his eyes were puffy, but Harry couldn’t help thinking he looked beautiful. And brilliantly, wonderfully _alive_. Malfoy sucked in a deep, shuddering breath, scrubbing his hands over his face. “You have no idea, Potter.”

“Well, then, tell me,” Harry said, reasonably. “I want to help.”

Malfoy snorted, and muttered something that sounded like ‘ _ha!_ ’ Then he deflated. “Where’s Pansy?”

“Dumbledore sent her off. I’ll try to find her for you. Just – Draco?”

Malfoy glared down at his hands. “Must you call me that?”

“It’s your name,” Harry pointed out. “I want to help. I I can protect you. You, and your mother. Your father, even.”

Malfoy’s head snapped up. “You sent my father to fucking Azkaban, Potter! Don’t pretend to care about him now.”

“I’m not pretending anything!” Harry snapped back. “I don’t care about him. But I care about _you_. And that outweighs anything I might feel for your father.”

Malfoy stared at him, bewildered. “But _why_?” The question burst from him as if it had been boiling under the surface for days, and Harry made himself wait a beat before answering.

Malfoy knew him, he reminded himself. He couldn’t lie.

“Because,” he said, slowly. “You’re not your father. Just like I’m not mine. It took me a long time to realise that I was projecting my feelings about your father onto you, and that’s not who you are. My father was a bully and a bigot at school.” _Not so very different from you_ , he didn’t say. “I’m proud of the man he grew up to be, the man my mother chose, but I will never be who he was. And I don’t think you want to be like yours, either.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Malfoy scoffed. “My father’s a great man.”

Harry eyed him sceptically. “He gave a cursed object to an eleven-year-old, and nearly killed five kids. He played dress-up and went on a rampage at the ‘94 World Cup. He debased himself in front of a half-blood, kissed his robes and snivelled at his feet, and gave up everything he’d achieved during You-Know-Who’s absence – power, prestige, and respect from the wizarding public and the Ministry – to play fetch-the-prophecy for his master. And then he went meekly off to prison, accepting his master’s punishment for surrendering in the face of dozens of Order members and Aurors, not to mention Dumbledore himself, who even You-Know-Who ran from that night.”

Malfoy was very still, but a muscle twitched in his jaw. He said nothing.

Harry shrugged. “You’re different, Malfoy. You might not want to be, but you are. You took the Dark Mark under duress –”

He saw Malfoy’s hand move involuntarily, as if to cover his left sleeve. Not that it mattered; Harry knew what was under there already. “You can’t know that,” Malfoy whispered.

“You-Know-Who sends your father to prison and you take his Mark willingly?” Harry scoffed. “I don’t think so. He knows nothing about purebloods, does he?”

Malfoy’s eyes narrowed. “And you do? You were raised by _Muggles_ , Potter.”

“Yes,” Harry admitted. “But so was You-Know-Who.”

“That’s hardly comparable,” Malfoy sneered. “The Dark Lord is descended from Salazar Slytherin himself.”

“Only through his maternal line,” Harry said. “His father was a Muggle. And he was raised in a Muggle orphanage. That’s where he learned to hate them, you know. His pro-pureblood fanaticism has nothing to do with respecting pureblood traditions, or holding on to the old ways, or even keeping the bloodlines ‘pure’. It has everything to do with his hatred of anything Muggle, even his own blood.” He paused, looking at Malfoy. “And I think you already knew that.”

Malfoy sighed. “It doesn’t matter what I know. It doesn’t change anything.”

“It changes your desire to follow him,” Harry countered. “And that changes how I feel about you. It changes everything.”

Malfoy shook his head. “You’re deluded, Potter. You and I are on different paths. The idea that there could be something between us is ludicrous.”

“Is it?” Harry caught Malfoy’s restless hands in his own, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss against those pale, thin lips. Malfoy didn’t resist; instead, he shivered helplessly, mouth opening under Harry’s.“You’re so lovely,” Harry said, breathing gently against his lips. He let go of Malfoy’s hands to cup his face, deepening the kiss, coaxing Malfoy to respond with little flicks of his tongue. Malfoy closed his eyes, and Harry felt him relax; not enough that it could be called a surrender, precisely, but enough that he could slip his tongue between Malfoy’s lips, press him down onto the bed, cover that slender body with his own. The thin white infirmary gown Malfoy was wearing was a poor barrier between them, and Harry could feel his chest moving in tiny, stolen pants as Harry devoured him. He pressed a thigh between Malfoy’s, urging them open so he could rock gently against Malfoy’s erection, clasping those elegant, too-thin wrists in his hands and drawing them oh-so-slowly above his head. Malfoy cried out and bucked up involuntarily, and Harry smiled against his mouth, kissing a trail down to his neck where he bit down punishingly. Malfoy moaned, and –

“POTTER!”

The voice cut like thunder through the fog of lust. Harry jerked up and away. Horrified, he spun to see Professor Snape standing with one hand frozen in the act of pushing back the curtain, the other pointing his wand straight at Harry’s heart. “Professor –!” he cried, hands out defensively.

Beside him, Malfoy scrambled to sit up. “Sir! It’s not –” And then he stopped, paling, and Harry finished the sentence in his head. _It’s not what it looks like._ But if Malfoy admitted that he was kissing Harry willingly, and Snape told Voldemort –

“I forced him!” Harry said, without thinking, just as Malfoy said, “It was consensual, professor.”

Snape stared at them both. “You stupid, _stupid_ boys,” he snarled. “Are you both entirely brainless? Have you no consideration for – no,” he interrupted himself, “of course not. You are both _wholly_ self-involved. Potter, get out. I don’t want to see you near Mr Malfoy again.”

“I think that should be Draco’s decision, _sir_ ,” Harry said, mulishly.

“It will be,” Snape said, ominously. “OUT!”

Harry set his jaw, but didn’t put up any further protest. After all, Snape could hardly watch Malfoy twenty-four hours a day. He jumped off the bed and waited until Malfoy’s eyes turned to meet his. “I’ll find Parkinson,” he promised, and nodded at the slightly-crushed box of chocolates on the bedside table. “For you,” he said. “Sorry about the blood.”

Snape growled.

Harry darted for the curtain, but not before he saw a tiny smile pull at the corner of Malfoy’s lips.

~*~

“Are you out of your _mind_?” Snape growled, as soon as the sound of Potter’s footsteps faded.

Draco leaned back against his pillows and folded his hands in his lap, willing his heart to slow down. It was still thumping wildly in his chest, first from the horror of the realisation that he’d never delivered his letter, and then Potter’s insistent, devastatingly powerful seduction, and finally the shock of Snape’s abrupt intrusion.

He watched as Snape set up a ward around his bed; layers of privacy and barrier charms. He thought idly that the ones he and Pansy used as a matter of course were very much more elegant and powerful. Of course, their wards were not _strictly_ Ministry-approved, whereas Snape had to be very careful what magic he performed inside Hogwarts, to maintain his cover.

“It was just a kiss,” he said.

Snape turned, hissing through his teeth. “It was a great deal more than that, Mr Malfoy. Or it would have been, had I not intervened when I did. What were you thinking? When I heard you were on a date with Potter in Hogsmeade, I could hardly countenance… and then, to see _that_ –”

“What happened to me?” Draco interrupted.

Snape paused. “Potter didn’t tell you?”

Draco shook his head. “Something about Finch-Fletchley?”

“Indeed,” Snape said, darkly. “He hit you with the Cruciatus Curse. Sent you flying through a window, and held you under for Merlin knows how long, while you were simultaneously trampled by a few dozen panic-mad students. You suffered multiple fractures and contusions, as well as two vicious Severing Charms courtesy of Finch-Fletchley. One sliced open your head, and the other cut almost right through your leg. You would have bled out in seconds, had it not been for Miss Granger’s clotting spell. And Finch-Fletchley might well have finished you off, had Miss Granger not stopped him.”

Draco stared at him. “You’re saying I owe Granger a life-debt?”

“You must be the judge of that, of course,” Snape said, a trifle too smugly for Draco’s peace of mind. “She sent for help, fought Mr Finch-Fletchley for his wand, _twice_ , stood over you to protect you from any further attacks, slowed the rate of your blood loss, and warded off the mob of idiots until help arrived. Granted, it was only Potter, who was, as usual, singularly useless, but more than likely you would be dead several times over had it not been for Miss Granger’s cool head and quick thinking.”

 _A life-debt indeed, then_ , Draco thought, bleakly. He didn’t ask why Finch-Fletchley had attacked him. It didn’t matter. “Will you tell the Dark Lord?”

Snape sat down abruptly in the chair by the side of his bed. The chair Potter had sat in all night, watching over him. “Draco,” Snape said, very quietly. “I need you to trust me. I need you to tell me what you’re thinking. I can’t help you if you don’t.”

Draco kept his eyes downcast. He had nothing to fear, of course. Snape was a brilliant Occlumens, so skilled that not even an expert Legilimens could be sure of piercing his innermost shields. His skill with Legilimency, however, was clumsy and inept – especially compared to Draco’s Aunt Bella, or the Dark Lord. Draco had fooled both.

His encounter with Snape outside Slughorn’s Christmas party had been easy by comparison. Snape had seen the clumsy uppermost layers in his mind, and believed, as he had been meant to, that Draco’s skill with Occlumency was rudimentary at best. He’d shown Snape only those emotions the professor had been expecting: a little hatred, a little fear, and the desperate, pathetic desire to prove himself and redeem his family.

But that meant he couldn’t meet Snape’s eyes now. He couldn’t risk his Head of House coming to suspect that perhaps he was a little _too_ confident. Those clumsy walls were the trick of an accomplished Occlumens; a trick Snape himself had no doubt used in the past. And they were all that protected his mother.

“You know I have only one chance to prove myself,” he said, in a low voice. “I won’t fail him. I won’t let a life-debt interfere with my task.”

Snape sighed; just a breath of air, resigned. “And Potter?”

Draco sat up a little straighter, meeting his eyes at last. He had been thinking about a way to explain this, to justify himself, ever since Potter had first approached him. He had his answer ready. “Potter’s trying to court me. I don’t know why, but I’ve been playing along. Gaining his trust. I’ve already learned a number of interesting things.”

A muscle in Snape’s jaw twitched. “You are _spying_ on Potter for the Dark Lord?”

Draco let his mouth curve into a smile; the one he knew resembled his father at his most ruthless. “Potter is a sentimental Gryffindor fool. He’s already told me secrets only his closest friends are privy to, and I haven’t even slept with him yet.”

“This is a dangerous game you’re playing, Draco.”

Draco just raised an eyebrow at him, supremely indifferent.

Snape shook his head. “If I forbid you to do this?”

“I’ll wonder why you’re trying to sabotage your own side,” Draco said, casually.

Snape stiffened. “Very well. But I hope you know I am not happy. Potter is a distraction, and I fear you will regret the lost time completing your task.” He hesitated. “Unless you have changed your mind…?”

“It’s _my_ task,” Draco said, flatly. He wished Snape would stop asking. He knew it could only be on Dumbledore’s behest, so either he was a double agent loyal to Dumbledore, and not a triple agent as the Dark Lord believed, or this was a test of Draco’s loyalty. In which case he would fail if he revealed anything about the task to his Head of House. And he would _not_ fail.

Snape sighed, but nodded. “All right. Just bear in mind, Draco, that the attainment of power is always secondary to self-preservation. Always.”

It was the Slytherins’ unofficial credo, and it wasn’t hard to see what Snape was getting at. He could be remarkably transparent sometimes. “I know, professor,” Draco said patiently. “I’ll use Potter. I won’t let him use me.”

Snape let his hand rest on Draco’s shoulder for a moment. “Remember that I am always here for you,” he said quietly, and then left, taking down the wards as he went.

A sharp female voice rose immediately from beyond the curtain, and Draco grimaced.

He endured twenty minutes of Madam Pomfrey’s poking and prodding, and then, when she had run out of diagnostic spells and healing spells and nutrition potions and who-knew-what-else, and left with stern instructions for him to rest, he sank back down on the bed in relief. It was surprisingly exhausting, having life-threatening injuries, and he couldn’t help but wonder how Potter did it, time and time again. Then again, the bloody Chosen One probably enjoyed the attention it afforded him.

Speaking of whom…

Draco turned his head to look at the bedside table, where Potter had left the box of chocolates. His favourite, again, and it made his heart skip a beat when he thought of _Harry Potter_ watching him that closely; close enough to divine his favourite sweet out of all those his mother sent him, and have it ordered especially from Belgium. It made him warm, all the way from his toes to the tips of his ears.

His feelings towards Potter were nonsensically complicated, yes. He could admit that, if only to himself.

Despite himself, he reached first for the box of chocolates, ignoring the glamoured letter Snape had placed beside it. But he couldn’t ignore it forever; there were curses on it that would prevent such an act of disobedience, as well as blood magic to prevent anyone else from reading it. So he indulged in only one delicious Côte d’Or before picking the letter up and examining it carefully. There was no evidence of tampering, but then, he hadn’t expected any. Snape was too intelligent to try that, no matter much he might want to. Blood magic was simply too powerful.

The missive inside was coded, but it didn’t take him long to decipher. The words themselves were veiled, too, with nothing that might give away who it was from, or to, or why, but the message was clear.

The Dark Lord was displeased, and Draco’s life was now forfeit along with his mother’s, if he failed.

~*~

Harry paused outside the wall that concealed the Slytherin dungeons. Most students were outside, enjoying the fine spring weather. Still, it didn’t occur to him that Pansy would be anywhere other than Slytherin; not since Dumbledore had banished her from the infirmary where her friend was lying at death’s door.

He knocked, and wasn’t at all surprised that it was Pansy who flung open the door. Her face was expressionless, but there were dark circles under her eyes, and she took a quick, involuntary half-step forward when she saw him. “Draco?”

“He’s fine,” Harry said. “He’s awake. He asked for you.”

She dragged in a deep breath, visibly relaxing. “Thank you.”

He nodded. “You should go. He was pretty upset.”

Pansy had already been edging around him, but she stopped at that. “I’m sorry?”

“He was upset. Crying,” Harry said. “He was frantic about _when_ he was attacked yesterday, like – like he’d had something really important to do, and he just about fell apart when he realised he hadn’t had enough time to do it.”

Pansy’s jaw tightened. “Something to do with his task,” she surmised.

Harry, who had just come to the same conclusion, nodded grimly. “I’m sorry,” he said. “If I could get him out right now, I would. But I know it’s going to take time. I’m trying to strike the right balance. I don’t want to do anything that might make him develop feelings for me. I know that would only hurt him, in the long run.”

Pansy’s eyes widened slightly. “I didn’t realise you understood.”

He shrugged. “You care for him. It makes sense that you wouldn’t want me to hurt him.”

“Thank you,” Pansy acknowledged. “But I’m afraid it might not be possible. Draco doesn’t trust easily, and when he does, his devotion to that person is absolute. Whether or not he grows to actually care for you, if you gain his trust, you have his heart. Please, _please_ be careful with it.”

Harry stared at her. “Of course,” he said. “I’ll try.”

“Thank you,” Pansy said, again. “I have to go now, but _thank_ you.”

Harry stepped aside, and she gave him a brief, distracted smile as she hurried past. “Pansy?” he called, before she’d gone more than a few steps.

She stopped, almost vibrating in place with her need to _leave_ , to see her friend. “Yes?” she said, over her shoulder.

“Just, I’m sorry it went so badly. Our first date. I should have been there for him. I should have protected him.”

She shook her head. “No one could have foreseen what happened. I’m just grateful for what you did do. What you are doing. I know it can’t be easy, when you’ve hated us for so long.”

Harry sighed. “I don’t – hate might be an exaggeration. Anyway, isn’t it mutual?”

She turned back to face him, her gaze serious. “Potter,” she said, “if you save Draco, I will get down on my hands and knees every day for the rest of my life and kiss your feet with the _utmost_ sincerity and devotion.”

Harry blinked at her. “Bloody hell, no, you won’t,” he said, firmly. “I’m not like that. I’m not a Dark Lord, and I’m definitely not a hero. I’m just Harry Potter.”

Pansy gave him a small smile. “You are not ‘just’ anything, Harry Potter. Now, I really do have to go.”

Harry nodded, and she turned on her heel, disappearing out of sight around the corner.

It was only then that he realised she’d left the door to the Slytherin common room wide open. He opened his mouth to call out after her, and then hesitated. The passageway was dark, but he could make out the common room beyond, lit by the strangely cold, green light of the Black Lake. It looked empty, and anyway, he had his Cloak. Pansy had practically given him a written invitation.

He slipped through the door before his conscience could stop him.

It had been four years since he and Ron had infiltrated Slytherin, and it seemed it hadn’t changed much. The common room was decorated in green and black, with low ceilings, a huge fireplace with high-backed armchairs and a squashy sofa, and several communal desks for studying. The walls were covered with ancient tapestries, and there were two hallways leading off from the common room, one sloping downwards, the other up.

Harry chose the left, down into what had to be the very bowels of Hogwarts.

Honestly, he’d half-expected it to be dark and dank, maybe with slime dripping from the ceiling. Instead, the hallway was warm and cosy, with burning sconces mounted on the walls, and thick, blood-red pile carpeting, the kind he could sink his feet into. Harry stared down at it with bewildered fascination. Red, in Slytherin?

But then, maybe it was to make it easier to hide the blood stains. That was something he could imagine Salazar Slytherin taking into serious consideration in his design.

Grimacing, he began down the hallway. Fortunately, the layout appeared to be similar to Gryffindor tower, with the first-years’ rooms closest to the common room, and the seventh years’ furthest away. Finding the sixth years’ dorm was easy, especially when he noticed the carvings of snakes on the lintels. Six, on the sixth years’ door.

One of them uncoiled at his approach and hissed, “Password.”

“Huh,” Harry said. He’d never noticed before when snakes spoke their own language; Parseltongue sounded exactly like English, to him. But a snake speaking English? That was, strangely enough, unmistakable. “Hello,” he said.

The guardian snake blinked at him, and its next words were in Parseltongue. “You speak our language. You are a descendent of Slytherin?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said, deciding obfuscation would probably be better than a flat denial. “I’ve been able to talk to snakes since before I can remember.”

“You wish to enter this room?”

“Yes, if that’s okay,” Harry shrugged. “I’d be grateful.” The snake paused, and Harry heard what sounded like a hundred snakes, whispering together. It might have been frightening, but the only snakes he’d ever truly feared had been Nagini and the basilisk, and then only because Voldemort controlled them. The door creaked open a moment later, and he smiled. “Thanks.”

“You are most welcome, little Slytherin.”

Harry bit his tongue, slipping through the door before he gave into the urge to contradict it.

He stopped just inside the doorway. While the Slytherin common room wasn’t all that different from Gryffindor – decorated in house colours, the fireplace the focal point of the room, a couple of tables for playing games or studying – apparently their dorms were completely different. Instead of a circular room with five four-poster beds crammed inside, like Gryffindor, there was a mini-common area with five doors leading off it. To _private rooms._

“That is _so_ not fair,” Harry complained.

He peeked into each room in turn, stopping when he reached the fourth one. The other bedrooms were in the kind of chaotic, disordered state he expected from other boys his age; the fourth room was immaculate. And then there was the bed, with that distinctive Malfoy crest on dark green sheets.

Harry shook his head, glancing around. There was a large chest at the bottom of the bed, again with the Malfoy crest, and a desk near the door with Malfoy’s textbooks lined up neatly on the shelves above. There was a small fireplace, an armchair, a large walk-in robe with the door just ajar, and a chest of drawers in the corner.

Another door led to a private bathroom, and Harry scowled again. “So not fair,” he muttered again.

“Harry?” said a voice, and he almost jumped out of his skin.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone leaving comments and kudos. You're all awesome! xx

**CHAPTER FOUR  
**

**COLLATERAL DAMAGE**

_Nothing could be more delightful!_  
 _To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love_  
~ Jane Austen

Part One

“Harry, open the door. I know you’re in there!”

It was Hermione’s voice, coming from the hall outside; slightly muffled but still strident. Harry whirled on his heel to see that the door had closed behind him, and he stared at it stupidly for a moment. "Hermione?"

"Come on, Harry!"

He hurried over to open it. “What are you doing here?”

She held up the Marauder’s Map. “I could ask you the same question,” she said. “We went to the infirmary, but Madam Pomfrey said you’d left. And then you didn’t come back to Gryffindor, so we got worried and dug out your map. Ron’s keeping watch outside. He said he’d seen enough of Slytherin house to last him a lifetime.” She peered around him. “What _are_ you doing in here, Harry?”

“Snooping,” Harry said, sheepishly. “Parkinson left the door open.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “So you’re taking advantage of Malfoy lying injured in the infirmary to go through his stuff?”

Harry winced. “Yes? I was looking for – clues, I guess. Malfoy’s always so cold, and cruel, and _hostile_ , and I thought that was just him. But this past week…” He remembered the warmth of Malfoy’s sleeping body curled against his chest, the way he’d surrendered to Harry’s kiss outside The Three Broomsticks, and then again in the infirmary, so _sweet_ … the way he’d cried, terrified and hopeless, in Harry’s arms…

He’d never seen Malfoy let down his guard like that. He’d never even realised there was a guard to let down.

“It’s like there’s this whole other person inside him.”

Hermione looked mystified. “What are you saying? He’s not really a Death Eater?”

“Oh, no,” Harry said. “He’s a Death Eater, all right. It’s ironic, really. I’ve been following him around all year. A week ago, I would have given _anything_ to expose him for what he is. And then he fell asleep in my arms, and I had the opportunity, finally, for proof – to look under his left sleeve… and I almost didn’t.”

“He’s Marked, then?”

Harry nodded. “Pansy was telling the truth. And I’m sure now – whether he took the Mark willingly or not, he’s under duress now. The thing is, even if I manage to somehow convince him I’m smitten with him, I just don’t see how my offer of protection will be enough. He’s terrified of Voldemort. He didn’t even care what Justin did to him, or why. All he could think about was how it might impact on his task.”

Hermione frowned. “So what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted. He gestured vaguely at the room behind him. “Hence, clues.”

“Do you want help?”

Harry shook his head and edged forward, closing the door behind him. He’d barely scratched the surface of Malfoy’s room, but already it felt like a violation. No need to add insult to injury by letting Hermione in, too.

She gave him a knowing look, and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. “You know, Harry, I’ve seen the way Malfoy looks at you. I don’t think it’ll be as hard as you think.”

Harry frowned down at the carpet. “Parkinson said something similar. She thinks I might not be able to do this without hurting him. A lot.”

“I guess we weren’t really thinking about Malfoy’s feelings when we agreed to this,” Hermione said, slowly. “But she's his best friend, Harry. If she thinks this is the only way, what choice do we have? He’s working for _Voldemort_. Whatever his task is, we can’t let it happen, not when there's a way to stop him.”

Harry sighed. “I know.” There was too much blood on his hands already. Too many dead, because of him.

She looked sympathetic. But then a bracelet on her arm started vibrating, and she said, “That’s Ron. Time to go.”

Harry dug his Invisibility Cloak out of his pocket and enlarged it, flinging it over their heads. They crept back up the hallway to find a group of third year girls already in the common room, laughing and settling into the sofaes by the fire. The portrait door was closed.

“We’ll have to wait,” Hermione breathed in his ear.

Harry nodded, and they moved together over to the door. Even on such a nice morning, someone was bound to open it soon enough. They wouldn’t have to wait long. “How did you get down there, anyway?” he whispered, eyeing the two hallways. “They don’t have restrictions?”

Hermione brightened. “Didn’t you notice the charm? The one that subtly pushes you towards the right dorm? It’s ingenious. I went down the girls’ hallway twice before I realised what was happening. But as soon as you figure it out, it stops working.” She sighed. “That is just so unfair.”

His lips twitched. “Hermione –”

She elbowed him. “Don’t even start, Mr I-snogged- _Malfoy_ -outside-The-Three-Broomsticks.”

Harry smiled despite himself. Even with the horrific events that had followed, he didn’t think anything could taint that kiss. Except, perhaps, the possibility of Draco Malfoy falling in love with him.

~*~

Pansy stopped in the doorway to the infirmary, drinking in the sight of her best friend, alive and well. For a moment, all she could think was _he’s okay, thank Merlin he’s okay_.

And then she took in his position; curled up in a tight ball on the bed, face pressed to his knees, his shoulders suspiciously still. Everything about that was wrong. Draco was constantly in motion, with all the elegant, smooth movement and restrained power of a predator. The only time she saw him really at rest was when he was asleep, and then he was almost angelic in his soft stillness.

“Draco,” she whispered, and his shoulders relaxed infinitesimally.

He looked up, and Pansy was shocked to see his eyes red-rimmed and wet. “Pans,” he said, his voice rough.

Her wand was in her hand instantly, and she was casting even as she moved forward. His wand joined hers, tightening the wards until only they were inside; a small protective bubble on the bed.

She settled opposite him, folding her legs beneath her, tossing her wand aside and taking his hands in hers. “What’s wrong, love?”

“You have to make Pomfrey let me go,” he said, hoarsely. “I have to get back to work. Now.”

She flinched. “Draco, no. You almost _died_ yesterday.”

He shook his head impatiently. “It doesn’t matter.”

Pansy’s mouth tightened. “Well, it matters to me, even if you have suddenly, inexplicably, become cavalier with your own life. I understand how much pressure you’re under, but –”

Draco dropped a letter in her lap. She felt the Dark Lord’s magic on it immediately, and an ugly shudder went down her spine. She didn’t hesitate. Picking it up between her thumb and forefinger, she flicked it away and cast a non-verbal _Incendio_ at it, mid-air. She took a perverse satisfaction at seeing it going up in flames.

“Tell me,” she said.

Draco watched as the red-hot ashes drifted gently to the floor and vanished, his expression blank. “I had a scheduled check-in yesterday, at The Three Broomsticks,” he explained. “I was supposed to pass along a letter; an update on my progress. Finch-Fletchley attacked me before I could give it to my contact. And now the Dark Lord is angry, and _my_ life is forfeit, along with my mother’s, if I fail to complete my task before the deadline. So you see, Pansy, I still have the utmost respect for my own self-preservation.”

His tone was full of loathing, and her throat closed up. “Draco…”

“You have to get me out of here.”

Pansy reached out and touched the scar that ran from his forehead around his right ear to the nape of his neck. It was stark red against his deathly pale skin. She felt like crying. “Draco, please. You have to stay, at least for another day. You almost _died_. You’re still healing. Surely you don’t want that scar to be permanent?”

He stiffened. “What scar?”

“Look,” she said, snatching up her wand again to cast _Speculum Creare_. A crystal clear mirror formed in the air between them, and Draco stared in horrified fascination at his reflection.

“It doesn’t matter,” he forced out. “It can’t.”

Pansy scowled. “Of course it does. You’re gorgeous, Draco. You know it, I know it. _Everyone_ knows it. It’s as important a part of your identity as – as being a Malfoy. Or a Slytherin.”

Draco slashed a hand through the mirror, banishing it. “There are more important things, Pansy,” he said, quietly. “I don’t want to die.”

She stared at him, stricken. “I know, honey,” she whispered. “I know. I’m so sorry. I’ll talk to Madam Pomfrey.” She started to get up, but he stopped her with a hand on her arm.

“There’s something else.”

“Anything,” she said, immediately. “You know you don’t have to ask.”

“I do,” he corrected her. “This is different. I need to explain myself to the Dark Lord, and to do that I need to get a letter to – to Madam Rosmerta, in Hogsmeade. I don’t know if it will be enough, but I have to try. He told me what the consequences of missing a check-in would be, ages ago.” He swallowed. “Pans. He’s going to hurt my _mother_.”

His voice broke, and she couldn’t bear it any longer. “I’ll find a way, Draco. I give you my word.”

~*~

Harry stopped by the infirmary that night to visit Malfoy, and was sent summarily on his way by an unusually irate Madam Pomfrey, snapping about _undernourishment_ and _sleep deprivation_ and _extremely fragile states_.

Harry blinked as the door was slammed in his face.

He waited until the next morning to try again, but Madam Pomfrey refused to even see him ; just shouted “ _no visitors!_ ” through the door.

Harry went to breakfast, worried. Madam Pomfrey was not one to make a mountain out of a molehill, especially where Malfoy was concerned. And she was quite obviously distressed.

He didn’t blame her. His own dreams had been haunted by that pale, gaunt face slashed with red… the ugly white of bone shining through the blood still pulsing from his leg… the involuntary spasm of muscles wracked by torture… his pitiful little cry as Snape lifted him in his arms…

The morning post just made everything worse. Every single headline blared with the news of the attack in Hogsmeade. ‘ _Grieving Schoolboy Uses Unforgivable on Son of Convicted Death Eater_ ’ was one of the most... restrained.

So, naturally, Harry was seething by the time he made it to DADA.

“Your performance last week in non-verbal duelling was abysmal,” Snape said, sweeping through the door at precisely nine o’clock. He turned on his heel at the head of the classroom. “I would usually expect better from a group of students nearing the end of their sixth year, but I’ve learned not to expect anything at all from _this_ particular,” black eyes scanned over the class before finding and resting on Harry pointedly, “group.”

Harry just met his gaze coolly.

Snape sneered. “I trust you have all completed your essays on the differentiation between the Sleeping Curse and the Sleeping Charm and associated healing charms of a similar nature. I remind you that deliberately large handwriting or spacing between paragraphs,” he looked at Ron this time, who flinched and scowled, “ _will_ be penalised. On my desk, now.”

The class began to levitate their scrolls to his desk, and Harry bent to rummage in his bag. As he did, he caught sight of Malfoy sidling into the room, schoolbag slung over his right shoulder and limping slightly. Harry jerked upright, mouth opening in an involuntary gasp of relief. “ _Psst_ ,” he hissed, gesturing Malfoy over.

Since there were no other spare seats nearby, Malfoy grimaced but slipped into the seat next to Harry.

“You look awful,” Harry blurted.

Malfoy stared at him. His eyes were sunken and haunted, and the wound was still bright red; a stain on the pale, sickly skin. He looked… desperate. And kind of angry.

Harry winced. “Oh. No, sorry, I didn’t mean – I meant you were attacked. Tortured. You almost died. Are you sure you should be here? I mean, I’m pretty sure Madam Pomfrey wanted you to stay on a bit –”

“It wasn’t up to her,” Malfoy said, repressively, and Harry shut his mouth. Well. At least that explained Madam Pomfrey’s bad mood.

“Mr Potter, Mr Malfoy, care to share with the class?” Snape said, bitingly. “Or, perhaps, submit your essays?”

Malfoy stiffened, horror flashing across his face.

Harry frowned. “What?” he whispered.

“I was going to fit it in yesterday,” Malfoy said, under his breath. “I was going to –” He sounded panicked, on the verge of hyperventilating. “I’m going to fail! This is the third one this year. My last chance. They’ll expel me for this –”

“Snape will give you an extra day,” Harry whispered back, a little puzzled. Malfoy had almost died; there was no way the professors wouldn’t take that into account. But then he caught sight of Snape’s forbidding expression, and the almost-but-not-quite hidden concern in those dark eyes, and he looked back at Malfoy, at the unnatural panic on his usually-composed face.

“Potter!” Snape barked.

He made a split second decision, slipping his wand partway out of his sleeve, and thinking _Chirographum Malfoy_ very hard at his essay. Then he shoved it into Malfoy’s hand. “It’s yours, take it,” he said under his breath.

Malfoy’s eyelids didn’t flicker. He levitated it carefully over to Snape’s desk, and then sat back in his chair.

“Well, Potter?” Snape said, impatiently.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Harry said, meekly. “I kind of forgot about it, what with everything that happened on Saturday.”

“You forgot?” Snape jumped on his excuse immediately. Like a shark circling its bleeding prey, Harry thought resignedly. “Do you think perhaps a detention or two would help you remember your homework, Mr Potter?”

“Honestly? Probably not,” Harry said, and Malfoy snorted softly. Harry stifled a grin.

“No, Mr Potter?” Snape said, baring his teeth. “How do you feel, then, about six or seven? Would a _week’s_ worth of detentions help to improve your memory?”

Harry sank lower in his chair, sighing. “Yes, sir.”

Snape smirked at him, and turned to flick his wand at the blackboard. “So. As you all clearly lack the necessary theoretical knowledge to perform competently in formal duels, let alone actual combat, it appears we will have to go back to basics.”

There was a chorus of groans as Snape’s tiny handwriting scrawled across the board. Even Hermione, three rows down, looked disgruntled.

Malfoy, however, got out his quill and parchment and began copying down the notes meticulously. It wasn’t until several minutes later that he said, out of the corner of his mouth, “Thank you.”

“Snape wouldn’t have failed you,” Harry said. “Would he?”

“He would have been as lenient as possible,” Malfoy acknowledged. “But he’s been covering for me all year. He warned me a month ago that any further infractions would have consequences even he couldn’t protect me from. You saved my arse.” He glanced at Harry with a complicated expression; of reluctant gratitude, and deep relief, and a kind of – yearning?

“You’re welcome,” Harry said, and turned back to his work.

~*~

Hermione hurried through the doors to the Great Hall at lunch, struggling to hold onto her stack of party invitations, as well as a backpack overflowing with textbooks and homework. She collapsed at the Gryffindor table, letting the backpack drop with a groan of relief. “I didn’t realise planning a party would be so much work,” she complained.

Harry eyed her sceptically. “Isn’t this party supposed to be after exams?”

“Which begin in _four weeks_ , Harry,” Hermione reminded him. “We need to be studying. And then we have a war to fight, and Hor –” She stopped, suddenly becoming aware of two little faces watching her in fascination. “Er,” she said. “Ron?”

Ron looked up from his sandwich, and followed her gaze to the two girls practically sitting in his lap. He shrugged sheepishly. “Hermione, meet Jenny and Eliza.”

“I’m Jenny!” said the first-year to Ron’s left. Her hair was curled in pretty blonde ringlets, and she had wide, cornflower-blue eyes. “ _Really_ nice to meet you.”

“Oh,” Hermione said, helplessly. “Nice to meet you, too. Both of you. Um, Harry?”

“They’re the girls Ron rescued on Saturday,” Harry explained, gravely. “From Hufflepuff.”

“He was so brave,” Eliza whispered, gazing up at him adoringly. She had short dark brown hair that looked like it had never seen a brush, and round glasses perched on the end of her nose. Hermione was reminded quite forcibly of a young Harry, and she coughed to hide the sudden urge to giggle.

“He’s a hero!” Jenny added, her blonde curls bouncing enthusiastically.

Hermione smiled at the girl, regaining her composure. “I quite agree. Of course, I wasn’t there to see it myself, so I’d love you to tell me the story. Ron’s too modest to tell me it himself.”

Jenny’s eyes lit up. “Really?”

“Really,” Hermione said, and that was all the encouragement she needed. Jenny explained excitedly that she and Eliza had discovered the passageway behind the mirror on the fourth floor some time ago; they’d used it as a cubby-hole until one day some rocks shifted and they were able to squeeze through and follow the tunnel all the way to Hogsmeade.

“And then we came out from a drain behind some barrels in an alleyway,” Jenny said, enthusiastically.

“Behind The Three Broomsticks,” Eliza interjected, blushing and peeking at Harry.

Harry’s mouth dropped open.

Jenny played with her curls. “I’ve never seen anyone kissing like that before,” she confided, glancing up at Ron through her eyelashes.

“Oh, Merlin no,” Harry groaned, dropping his head to the table.

Ron went bright red and began to stammer, gazing at Hermione in mute appeal. She had to force herself to keep a straight face, even as Harry began banging his forehead against the table. “That’s a kiss for grown-ups,” she explained to the little Hufflepuffs. Morgana, had she ever been that innocent? “Harry and Draco Malfoy are boyfriends.”

Harry went very still.

Jenny cocked her head to one side. “But Draco Malfoy is a Slytherin.”

“Yes, he is,” Hermione agreed. “One of my friends is a Slytherin, too. She’s really very nice.”

The two girls stared at her, astonished.

“There’s a girl called Adeline in our Transfiguration class,” Eliza offered, at last. “She’s Slytherin, but she’s always been nice to me.”

Hermione smiled. “There you go. Why don’t you try being her friend?”

“I think that’s a great idea,” Ron said, and the girls immediately transferred their adoring gazes back to him. Hermione smiled at him, and he blushed again. “You should go for it,” he said.

“All right,” Jenny decided. “We will. Right, Eliza?”

Eliza nodded shyly, and then ducked her head when Ron smiled at her. She leaned into his shoulder, and Hermione thought ruefully that she’d just gained two more rivals for the biggest crush on Ronald Bilius Weasley.

“I _suck_ ,” Harry said in an undertone, as Jenny chattered away to Ron, Eliza interjecting occasionally to correct her friend. “Not only did I send Justin over the edge with that kiss, I corrupted two _eleven-_ year-olds.”

Hermione glared at him. “You did no such thing, Harry Potter,” she scolded. “Well – I mean, you did expose two innocent children to your carnal activities with Malfoy –” Harry snorted, and she ignored him loftily, “but you are not responsible for Justin’s actions. You know that, right?” He didn’t reply, and she narrowed her eyes at him. “You _do_ know that, Harry?”

He sighed, and changed the subject. “We really should see if there’s a way to block off those secret passages out of Hogwarts. I can’t believe these girls could have been _killed_ because we never turned in the Map.”

Hermione kicked him as hard as she could under the table, and he muffled a yelp.

“Hermione,” he said, glaring.

“No,” she whispered, furious. “You have got to stop blaming yourself for everything! We all agreed the Map was far too valuable and dangerous a resource to lose. And besides, it is beyond naïve to think the Headmaster doesn’t know about the secret passages.”

He gaped at her. “You think he knows?”

“Of course he does,” Hermione said, and Harry looked so dumbfounded at the idea that she realised it had honestly never occurred to him. Really, she didn’t see why not. It was no worse than keeping a giant three-headed killer dog in the school, or sending students into the Forbidden Forest for detention. Magic was dangerous, and it made a certain sort of sense that students should learn that in school before venturing out into the far more dangerous wizarding world as adults.

But with war on their doorstep, and an evil madman out there who would like nothing more than to pierce Hogwarts’ defences and kill her best friend, it was more than a little disturbing.

“If Voldemort ever found out...” Harry said, slowly.

“I know,” Hermione said. “And I can understand leaving them open as escape routes, but maybe we should think about some kind of magical seals. Something that can be opened in an emergency, perhaps, but can’t be used to infiltrate Hogwarts from the outside. And some kind of warning system, too. I’m surprised Dumbledore’s never considered it. Maybe...”

“Hermione?”

“Hm?” she said, already wondering which section of the library to begin her search in.

“Just to clarify, Draco and I? Not boyfriends.”

“Not yet,” Hermione agreed, glancing up at him. The look on his face made her pause. “I just mean, that’s the direction you’re going, right? That’s The Plan.”

“Right,” Harry said. He frowned. “Is that really part of the plan?”

“Well, you did go into this with the intention of courting Malfoy seriously,” Hermione pointed out. “You’re supposed to be acting as if you’re in love with him. That means you want to date him. You want to be his boyfriend.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, slowly. “But he’s not supposed to want it back, is he? Pansy was right, he’s attracted to me, which means sleeping with him is probably inevitable. But boyfriends –” He shook his head. “That’s different. That’s a committed relationship. That would be so, so wrong, on so many levels.”

Hermione pursed her lips. Of course, people slept together all the time without falling in love. Ron and Lavender, for instance. Ron had certainly not been in love with her, even though he’d been all over her trying to get in her pants for months. (Lavender still refused to even acknowledge Hermione’s existence.)

But Harry wasn’t indulging in a casual seduction. He was actively trying to convince Malfoy that he was in _love_ with him. Was he really still hoping that Malfoy would come out of this unscathed?

“Sorry,” Harry said, and she realised she was still gazing absently at Ron.

“Oh,” she said, flushing. “No, I –” Harry tilted his head slightly in question, and she sighed. “Actually, it’s going pretty well at the moment.”

“Oh yeah?” he said, brightening. “Details!”

Hermione chuckled. “I don’t know how it took me so long to see it. You are so gay.”

Harry snorted. “Shut it. No, wait, scratch that. I want to know _everything_.”

~*~

That afternoon, there was a big commotion during Transfiguration. Professor McGonagall had been teaching them (so far unsuccessfully) to transfigure inanimate objects into larger animate objects. _It’s a matter of matter_ , Hermione told them seriously, and Ron and Harry tried very hard not to laugh at her. Still, she was the only one who had managed to change her teaspoon into a red squirrel, and the girls were all cooing over it.

Malfoy was sitting at the front of the class with Blaise Zabini, and as far as Harry could tell, he was lost in his own world. He had copied out the notes at the beginning of the class, but since then he’d hardly lifted his wand at all.

Harry was trying to concentrate on his own teaspoon, and not stare at the back of Malfoy’s head, when there was shrieking, wailing sound from across the hall. Seventh year Charms was in the classroom opposite, and they’d been practicing perimeter charms for the past hour, much to Professor McGonagall’s obvious displeasure.

This one, however, was louder than the rest, and it didn’t stop immediately. A clamour of student voices rose above the alarm, and Ernie Macmillan, seated nearest the door, peeked outside.

“Justin!” he said, in surprise.

A murmur went around the room, and suddenly everyone was crowding around the door. Harry had to stand on tiptoe to even catch a glimpse of the Auror procession marching down the hall.

“Caterwauling Charm,” Dean said, snorting. He was at least half a head taller than anyone else in the class, and could see much better than Harry. “Chose the wrong hallway to sneak him out of Hogwarts, didn’t they! Should’ve Flooed him out.”

“Why didn’t they?” Harry asked.

“Not protocol,” Ron told him. “People can escape pretty easily in the Floo network. But Justin’s not exactly a hardened criminal. Looks like they’re regretting it, now.”

The Aurors certainly looked irritated, except for one drawn, tired face under a mop of blue-grey hair. Tonks. She looked far too miserable to be irritated, and Harry found himself wishing for the millionth time he could find the words to tell her that Sirius’ death had not been her fault. It was Harry’s, just like Justin’s attack on Malfoy. Even the thought of what he’d done sickened Harry down to his core, but he couldn’t blame Justin alone. Harry had been the one to set that whole chain of events into motion, and he understood all too well the grief and hatred that could push someone to try an Unforgivable.

_Come out, come out, little Harry!_

_Aaaahhh, did you_ love _him, little baby Potter?_

He pushed his way to the door, and ran to cut the Aurors off. They had their wands out in less than a second, angry exclamations on their lips.

Harry held up his hands. “I just want to talk to him,” he said. “Please.”

“Give Harry a minute, yeah?” Tonks said, quietly.

Almost as one, their eyes flicked to his forehead, and he struggled with the urge to flatten his hair over his stupid scar. But it worked in his favour, for once, and they nodded and moved away, standing a short distance away. Tonks cast an Imperturbable, giving him privacy, and started to shoo the other students back into their classrooms.

Harry looked at Justin.

Justin stared back at him, his brown eyes dull, curly brown hair tangled and matted. Harry remembered how it had felt, pushing his fingers through that thick, curly hair as they made love; how Justin had kissed away Harry’s tears as he took him for the first and only time. How, the very next morning, Justin had turned his face away from Harry’s good morning kiss.

How Malfoy’s hair felt, so different from Justin’s, slipping soft as silk through his fingers. How it had looked, soaked with blood from Justin’s vicious, unprovoked attack.

“I’m sorry about your mum and sister,” Harry said.

Justin looked away, jaw twitching. “Thanks.”

“I want you to know that I’ll speak for you at the trial,” Harry said. “You’re a good person, even though what you did was wrong.”

Justin scowled. “What, you’re defending him now? First I find you _kissing_ that Death Eater spawn, and now –”

“I’m not,” Harry said. “But he didn’t do anything to you, or your family. Justin, you have to see that what you did – torturing him, using _Diffindo_ … you almost killed him. That’s not you. You’re not like them. You’re not a murderer.”

Justin looked away. “I know,” he admitted, roughly. “I was just so angry.”

Harry sighed. “Yeah. I get it.” Justin had helped him through one of the darkest periods of his life. Even if, in retrospect, he knew it had just been about sex for the other boy, maybe even the prestige of taking the Boy Who Lived’s virginity… still, he’d still been a lifeline to a drowning man. He couldn’t turn his back on that, no matter what Justin had done since then.

Justin’s hands curled into fists. “I don’t need your pity _,_ Potter,” he spat. “And I _really_ don’t need your pathetic comparisons to Mum and Paige. Your parents died before you can even remember, and you barely even knew your godfather. You don’t know anything about grieving for someone you love.”

Harry staggered back a step, feeling as if he’d been slapped across the face. “What?”

“You heard me,” Justin said. Part of Harry knew he was in genuine pain, just lashing out at the nearest convenient target, but the rest of him felt every word like a blow to the chest. “You always were such a little drama queen, hyping up your ‘grief’ like you’d actually lost someone important to you. It’s _pathetic_.”

Harry swallowed. He knew he was just prodding at old wounds now, but he couldn’t help it. “You broke up with me because you thought – you think I’m pathetic?”

Justin’s lips twisted into a parody of a smile. “Well, that, and you were a truly terrible fuck.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, mechanically. “I – didn’t realise.” He turned to go, and then stopped. “I’ll still speak for you. I owe you that much.”

Justin just sneered at him.

Fortunately, Tonks had been watching the conversation closely, and she lifted the Imperturbable Charm. Harry let himself back into the Transfiguration classroom, and didn’t look back.

~*~

It was still early when Harry left for his detention with Professor Snape. He hadn’t been able to concentrate on his homework, and even a game of wizarding chess with Ron had failed to distract him. He knew Ron and Hermione were worried about him, but he really couldn’t stand another minute of their speaking glances and cautious conversation.

He was just walking up to the door of the DADA classroom when Professor Snape emerged.

“Sir?” he said, confused.

“This way,” Snape said, brusquely. “You will serve your detention tonight with the Headmaster.”

“Oh.” Harry wondered if Dumbledore wanted to continue their discussions about the Horcruxes. Or if this was about Justin. Or Malfoy. He turned on his heel and followed Snape to the staircase with the guardian gargoyle.

“Lemon ice-bubbles,” Snape said, and propelled Harry onto the first step.

Harry stared at him until the gargoyle hid him from view, wondering at the grim expression. Not that Snape was ever cheerful, exactly, but even his anger (when directed at Harry, anyway) usually had an edge of smug satisfaction. Harry felt cold fear grip him. What if something had happened? To one of the members of the Order, or to the Weasleys, or to Hermione’s family?

He burst into Dumbledore’s office. “Sir? What’s going on? Is someone hurt?”

The Headmaster looked surprised. “Harry. No, no one is hurt. Whatever gave you that idea?”

Harry flushed, embarrassed. He dropped into the chair opposite Dumbledore. “Sorry, sir. I guess I was just being paranoid.”

Dumbledore sighed. “Not at all, my dear boy. The shadow of war is affecting us all, and a certain paranoia is not unjustified. You, more than anyone else, bear this burden.”

And just like that, the weight of the unfulfilled prophecy, the deaths of so many innocents, and the fear that he wouldn’t come back from killing Voldemort, if he even _succeeded_ , all crashed back down on him. Harry sank lower in his chair. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Is that what you wanted to see me about?”

“In part,” Dumbledore agreed, gently. “First, however, I’m sure you saw the headlines this morning?”

Harry grimaced. It had been all anybody had talked about at breakfast, and at lunch they’d still been passing the newspapers around. Now, after the Aurors had so horribly bumbled their attempt at getting Justin out of the castle unseen, the rumours and gossip had increased tenfold. Dinner had been almost unbearable. The only saving grace was that Malfoy had failed to turn up for it, yet again.

“Yes, sir,” he said. “They’re saying he’ll be tried as an adult.”

“I’m afraid so,” Dumbledore agreed. “Given the dark times we are facing, Mr Finch-Fletchley’s trial will no doubt be highly publicised and political. The fact that he is still at school, under the protection of his father, will mean very little. He is seventeen, and therefore of age, and he must take responsibility for his own actions. He did a terrible thing, and there will be those who will clamour for the harshest penalty possible: a life sentence, or even the Dementor’s Kiss.”

“What?” Harry said, horrified. “They can’t do that!”

“It is up to the Wizengamot to determine his guilt or innocence,” Dumbledore said. “However, the judges pass sentence, and their motivations may sometimes be political. I imagine they will bow to public opinion, in this case. Justin will be hailed as a tragic and heroic figure, whose victim was a Death Eater’s son, and they will make him a figurehead for their cause, losing sight of the boy himself in their fever. It is more than likely he will be released without any punishment at all.”

Harry frowned. “But that’s not fair, either. He tried to kill Draco. He _tortured_ him!”

“Yes,” Dumbledore agreed. “But war is very rarely fair. And neither is your burden, my boy.” He paused. “I heard about your confrontation with Mr Finch-Fletchley. Would you like to talk about it?”

Harry shifted uncomfortably. “Not really, sir.”

Dumbledore nodded. “Very well. But if you change your mind, you know you are always welcome to come and talk to me.”

“Thank you, professor,” Harry said. “Uh. I offered to speak at Justin’s trial.”

“Did you?” Dumbledore looked pleased. “That was very mature of you, Harry. It can’t be easy, being torn between a past love and a present one.”

“I didn’t love him,” Harry said, which was a lie. He’d fallen for Justin quick and hard, and had come to regret it bitterly. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

Dumbledore inclined his head gravely. “My apologies. I forget, sometimes, what it is like to be young.”

Harry frowned, suddenly wishing that he could explain everything. But Dumbledore insisted on keeping his secrets, and that made it hard to trust that he would be taken seriously. If there was some reciprocation, maybe… “I’m not going into this blind,” he said. “I know Draco is a Death Eater.”

“Then you are aware of the potential risks,” Dumbledore said, simply. “Has it occurred to you that Mr Malfoy could be using you to discover our secrets and pass them along to Lord Voldemort?”

Harry stared at him. “You’ve been dismissing my concerns all year about Malfoy, and just _now_ you’re worried he’s spying on us?”

Dumbledore sighed heavily. “It was never my intention to make you feel as if I was dismissing your concerns, my dear boy. But you must see a relationship with Mr Malfoy could endanger everything we are working towards.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t see, actually.”

Dumbledore looked at him levelly. “You are the only one who can defeat Voldemort, Harry. The prophecy, and Voldemort, have made it so. I know it's not fair, but you cannot think only of the danger you put yourself in by associating with him. If you risk your life, you risk the very future of all wizarding-kind. I’m afraid that is not a risk I can allow you to take, no matter your reasons for courting him.”

Harry deflated. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“Good. Then you will stop seeing him.” It was almost a question, but there was a hint of steel underlying it. An order.

Harry nodded silently.

“Excellent,” Dumbledore smiled warmly, the twinkle back in his eyes. “Wonderful, Harry. I cannot tell you what a relief it is to have that settled.” He reached out and snagged a bowl of pale yellow sweets. “Lemon ice-bubble?”

Harry shrugged and took one. It was interesting; ice-cold, as advertised, and seemed to disintegrate into gently-fizzing bubbles in his mouth. “Nice,” he managed to say, as the bubbles popped and slid sweetly down his throat. “Thank you, sir.”

“Mm’m,” Dumbledore said, his own mouth full. He swallowed. “Unfortunately, I believe Severus expects you to be appropriately punished during your detention.” With a flick of his wand, he conjured a desk in the corner, and gestured Harry towards it. “Why don’t you make a start on that essay?”

“Yes, sir,” Harry agreed, cringing inwardly at the thought of having to write another sixteen inches for Snape. And it would have to be completely different from his last one, too, so as not to arouse suspicion.

Dumbledore levitated the bowl of lemon ice-bubbles over to Harry’s desk with a kind smile, and for a while there was silence, only the sound of Harry’s quill scratching the parchment and the occasional snore from Dumbledore filling the room.

Finally, when Harry was almost falling asleep himself, Dumbledore woke enough to send him back to the dorms. Harry went straight there, remembering the Headmaster’s implicit warning that his paranoia was not, perhaps, unwarranted. He was sure Dumbledore had not meant him to take it as a warning against _him_ , but Harry couldn’t help noticing the way the portraits all followed him with their eyes.

He closed the portrait door behind him, slipped his Invisibility Cloak over his head, waited a few minutes, and then turned and headed straight back out… to the Room of Requirement.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone leaving comments and kudos! They make my day :)

**CHAPTER FOUR**

**COLLATERAL DAMAGE**

Part Two

Draco placed two, trembling hands carefully on the Vanishing Cabinet, bowed his head against the smooth surface, and closed his eyes. _Six weeks_. Six weeks until the end of term. Six weeks until any hope of fulfilling his task and saving his mother was dead and gone. Six weeks until his own, gruesome death.

He’d concealed the details from Pansy; how, exactly, the Dark Lord planned to kill him if he failed. Most days, he couldn't even think it, let alone say it out loud.

Time was running out, and he was no closer to fixing the fucking thing than he had been three months ago. He’d made such good progress at first; he’d been so _hopeful_. And now everything he tried was just another failure to add to the growing list.

Tears prickled at his eyes, but he dashed them away angrily. He’d cried _enough_ , dammit. It was time for action, not self-pity.

“Why won’t you _work_?” he whispered, voice cracking.

A sharp rap on the wall outside made him jump, and he whirled, almost tripping in his haste.

 _Potter_.

But he couldn’t just ignore the knock. He had a debt to pay. Several, in fact. Pansy had explained that, despite Snape’s disparaging view of Potter’s contribution, even he hadn’t been able to get through the mob at The Three Broomsticks until Potter had dispersed them all. And then there was the essay, and the way he’d sat in that chair by Draco’s bedside all night when there was a chance he wouldn’t wake up, and the chocolates from Belgium, and the kiss.

“He owes _you_ for that kiss,” Draco corrected himself, striding over to the door and flinging it open. Then he stopped and blinked. The hallway outside was empty. Something brushed by him, and Draco jumped, heart pounding. “ _Potter_?” he hissed.

“Close the door,” Potter hissed back.

Draco frowned. “I don’t remember inviting you in.”

The door slammed closed on its own, making Draco jump again, and then Potter appeared out of thin air, folding up his Invisibility Cloak and stuffing it into his pocket. Draco felt his heart rate accelerate, and he tried to look anywhere but at the Vanishing Cabinet. _Don’t look, and he won’t know – don’t look_...

“Sorry,” Potter said, and he at least seemed genuinely apologetic. “Dumbledore’s practically forbidden me to see you. He has eyes everywhere in the castle. I couldn’t risk a conversation out in the open like that.”

Draco stared at him. “What?”

But Potter wasn’t paying attention; he was turning in a circle to take in the Room, green eyes bright and fascinated. “What _is_ this place?”

“The Room of Hidden Things,” Draco said, following his gaze. It had become commonplace, even hated, during his many months here, but now he tried to see it again with that initial wonder of discovery.

The room was vast, stretching for miles, filled with veritable mountains of old, forgotten treasures. Countless pieces of ancient, damaged furniture; broken chairs and old-fashioned student desks, blackboards, cabinets, and even the odd curtain rail. An enormous, stuffed troll (which Draco didn’t like to think too much about), stacks of out-of-date (or possibly banned) books, dusty, sleeping portraits, and hundreds of odd bits and bobs, like a shelf of suspicious-looking potion bottles, an ornate hand-bell, a diadem that had seen better days, and a pile of moth-eaten blankets that Draco had, on occasion, slept on overnight.

There was even a catapult, which Draco had been dying to try. He just didn’t have the time to restore it, what with the Vanishing Cabinet, and his task, and trying to keep up with his schoolwork and keep the professors off his back, not to mention bloody Potter...

“Brilliant,” Potter said, peering down one of the many aisles. “How far does it go?”

“I don’t know,” Draco said. He’d decided to explore, once, and had panicked ten minutes later when there was no end in sight, and the door had disappeared into the distance behind him. It had taken him an hour to find his way back, and he hadn’t ventured past the Vanishing Cabinet since. “What do you mean, Dumbledore’s forbidden you to see me? We have classes together. We eat in the same hall.” He frowned. “Unless you mean…”

Potter looked back at him. “Romantically, yes. He doesn’t want me courting you, in case you give away my secrets to Vol – You-Know-Who,” he corrected himself apologetically.

He really wasn’t afraid of saying the Dark Lord’s name, Draco thought. Was that stupidity, or bravado? Since he had, by all accounts, faced the Dark Lord himself in battle twice in the last two years, Draco didn’t see how it was possible to simply be unafraid. Just being in the Dark Lord’s presence made his skin crawl; he couldn’t imagine _standing_ against that kind of power.

“We’re not seeing each other ‘romantically’,” he said.

Potter gave him an odd smile, but didn’t comment on the omission. Draco was grateful for it. He’d much rather talk about whatever-it-was between them than his allegiance to the Dark Lord. “What do you call our date in Hogsmeade, then?”

“A mistake,” Draco said. He glanced at the Vanishing Cabinet, despite himself. The weight of despair was crushing.

“You all right?” Potter asked, taking a step forward.

Draco waved away his concern. “Nothing you can do anything about.”

Potter frowned. “My offer still stands, you know.”

His offer. Protection against the Dark Lord. Impossible. Ridiculous. “I know.” Draco turned away, and caught a glimpse of his reflection in a dirty, cracked mirror. He flinched, reaching instinctively for the tiny glass bottle in his pocket.

Potter caught his hand. “Let me?” he asked. His palm was soft and warm around Draco’s, fingers gentle as he pried the vial out of his hand. “ _Origanum_ or _Albus_?”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Impressive. I always assumed you had Longbottom do your Herbology work for you.” His taunt should have had Potter bristling, but the stupid Gryffindor just waited patiently, blinking those bright green eyes at him. Draco sighed. “It’s a combination of both, actually. Dittany of Crete to heal, and White Dittany to prevent scarring. Of course, it might already be too late for that. Madam Pomfrey said I needed an intensive course of treatment. At least two more days in the infirmary.”

“But you didn’t stay.”

It wasn’t a question, and Draco didn’t reply. Potter un-stoppered the glass bottle, and Draco told him, “Tap your wand against it; ask for the Dittany of Crete first.”

Potter did so, and spread the slippery white film over his fingers. His face was curiously intent as he touched it to Draco’s forehead, smoothing it down around his ear to the nape of his neck. Draco shivered, suddenly far too aware of Potter’s physical presence. It seemed to fill the room, surrounding him, possessing him.

He was _powerful_ , and not like the Dark Lord. It was different; strong, pure, focused. _Determined_.

It made him hard.

Potter tapped his wand against the bottle again, and dipped his fingers into the clear substance that appeared. “White Dittany,” he murmured, touching his fingers again to Draco’s scar. “I like its other name; ‘burning bush’. Everything but the root is inedible and poisonous to the touch, yet highly fragrant. And beautiful, of course, in bloom.”

Draco’s eyes fluttered closed as those strong, gentle fingers smoothed over the vulnerable skin of his face and neck. And then his fingers spread, sliding up into his hair to cup the back of his head tenderly.

Draco opened his mouth to protest the sticky substance in his hair, but found Potter’s lips against his instead. He stilled, a shuddering moan working its way up through his body. Potter took full advantage, slipping his tongue into his mouth. The taste was shockingly good, sending shivers down his spine.

Potter’s arm slid around his waist, pulling him in close, up against that hard, strong body.

Draco broke the kiss immediately. “P-Potter –”

It was too much, too much, but Potter just dove in again, and he was being held, being touched, being kissed, every inch of him quivering in pleasure, like his body and magic had come _alive_ in Potter’s hands. Because it was Harry Potter – Harry _bloody_ Potter – insinuating his thigh between Draco’s, shoving Draco’s robes up above his waist.

Of course, a pureblood’s robes did not unfasten quite so easily, and Draco yelped as the thin inner lining ripped and tore in Potter’s brutish grip.

“Potter!” he cried, indignant.

But Potter ignored him, backing him up against a rickety chest of drawers and claiming his mouth again, hungry, demanding, his hands everywhere on Draco’s skin, sure and possessive. Draco shivered and surrendered under the assault, bringing shaky, fumbling fingers up to Potter’s belt to reciprocate, only to snarl with frustration as the unfamiliar Muggle clasps failed to yield to him.

Potter laughed silently into his mouth. “Let me,” he said, breaking the kiss long enough to undo his belt and zipper, pushing his trousers down to his knees. He shoved Draco back against the chest of drawers, pinning him there, naked and rubbing and _perfect_. His hands slid around the back of Draco’s thighs, cupping his arse, fingers seeking and stroking the soft skin of his perineum, the underside of his balls.

Draco whimpered, hands trembling as he grasped Potter’s shirt, suddenly, desperately, wanting those fingers somewhere else. “Please, please –”

Potter growled, lifting him and slamming him back up against the chest of drawers.

Draco didn’t even register the pain. He was sure there would be bruises, but those, as well as the hickeys Potter was currently sucking into his neck, would be easily healed. Later. “Don’t drop me,” was all he managed to say, breathless.

Potter just kissed him, again and again, until every thought in his head had fled, and Draco closed his eyes, let Potter take control, let him grasp their cocks in his warm, wand-calloused hand and bring them off.

Afterwards, he had just enough presence of mind to guide them, stumbling, over to the pile of blankets. They collapsed together, legs weakened, tangling around each other. Draco fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

~*~

Harry woke cold and sticky, trousers caught around his knees. Draco’s robes were twisted and bunched at their waists, trapping his arm beneath them. “Ow,” he complained, still half-asleep. “Ger’off.”

Draco mumbled something incoherent, turning over and burying his nose in Harry’s armpit. Harry froze, suddenly wide awake. His arm was free now, anyway, and Draco was still recovering from injuries that could have killed him. He needed rest.

Pushing off his trousers, Harry snagged the corner of a scratchy, old blanket and dragged it over them, folding his arms around Draco. It was… kind of nice, cuddling. He’d never done it with Justin; not post-coital, anyway. Mainly because the first and only time he’d ever woken up beside the other boy had consisted of a break-up and Harry retreating to the safety of his own blankets in Gryffindor until Ron and Hermione dragged him out and demanded to know what was going on.

He sighed.

“I don’t suppose you could endeavour to breathe a little quieter, Potter?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I apologise. Is there anything else I can do for His Highness?”

“You could start with transfiguring us a proper bed,” Malfoy suggested, slinging a leg over Harry’s and wriggling to get comfortable. Harry caught his breath. There were still several layers between them, but the intimacy of the position… he’d never felt anything like it. Honestly, it made him a little uncomfortable, but the pleasant friction was making certain other parts of his anatomy – _interested_. “Honestly, Potter, are you a wizard or not?”

Harry’s eyes narrowed, and unthinkingly, he made a sharp little gesture with his hand. The pile of blankets transformed into a king-sized poster bed with smooth cotton sheets, plump pillows, and blood-red curtains that hid them from the rest of the Room.

Draco lifted his head, stared around them at the bed, and then at Harry.

Harry stared back. “Huh.”

“Did you just do that non-verbally? Without a wand?”

Harry’s mouth opened, and then closed. He shrugged helplessly.

“You can barely perform a simple cleaning charm non-verbally, let alone a complex Transfiguration from an object of smaller to greater mass,” Malfoy said, suspiciously. “And wandlessly, too. You’ve been behind in the practical aspect of almost every class this year, even Defence. Unless you’ve been deliberately hiding your true abilities.”

“If I was, why would I show you now?” Harry said, reasonably. “You, of all people, who could use that kind of information against me.”

Malfoy searched his eyes for a long moment. “True enough.” He shook his wand into his hand, and waved it silently, turning the curtains a dark green.

Harry snorted. “Slytherin,” he accused.

“Naturally,” Malfoy said, and waved his wand again, this time in a complicated twirl over their heads. His outer robes disappeared, leaving him in a simple, long-sleeved tunic. Harry felt his own clothes vanish completely. His skin tingled in a way that meant Malfoy had used _Purifico_ , and then Malfoy settled against him again; warm, clean, and sweet-smelling. Harry buried his face in the soft white-blond hair, inhaling deeply. “Rumour has it that you’re going to speak for Finch-Fletchley at the trial.”

“Er,” Harry said, caught off guard. “Yes? I don’t condone what he did, obviously. But Dumbledore said there's a risk they might sentence him to the _Kiss_. I have to make sure it's a fair trial, at least. Not - not because he's my ex, but because he was there for me at a bad time. I owe him for that. And if I hadn’t kissed you out in full view of anyone passing by, when he’d only just found out about his mum and sister… it never would have happened.”

Malfoy stared at him. “That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

Harry blinked. “Sorry?”

“You heard me.” Malfoy looked angry now, grey eyes flashing. “We were on a date. I had every right to let you kiss me. And Finch-Fletchley came at me from behind. I almost bled out in the middle of the _street_ , Potter. It wasn’t an act of self-defence, or even vengeance. There’s no justification for it.”

“I know,” Harry said, helplessly. “But Justin’s a victim too.”

“Not mine,” Malfoy retorted. “Not even my family’s. My father’s in prison, thanks to you, and Mother hasn’t left the Manor in months.”

Harry softened, hearing the unspoken fear for his mother, hostage to Malfoy’s obedience. “I’m sorry,” he said. He trailed a finger down Draco’s arm absently. “So if, say, Katie Bell or Ron had been the one to attack you?”

Malfoy shrugged, a dull flush creeping up his neck. “Well, it’s not as if I could have blamed them, is it?” he said. “But I’d wager they’d meet me face-to-face. To attack from behind was cowardly and contemptible.”

 _Even by Slytherin standards?_ Harry was tempted to ask. “Justin wouldn’t have done it either, if he’d been thinking straight,” he said, playing with the sleeve of Draco’s tunic. “We all do stupid things when we’re angry and grieving; things we’d never do in our right minds. It doesn’t mean he deserves to – to be Kissed, or to go to Azkaban for the rest of his life. You deserve justice, but that’s not it.”

Malfoy frowned, catching Harry’s restless hand in his own. “Maybe. But, Potter, if the Dark Lord killed one of your friends – Granger, or the Weasel – and you were given the opportunity, then and there, to cast the Killing Curse at him from behind, in all your grief and fury, would _you_ do it?”

Harry remembered Bellatrix, at the Ministry. “Maybe,” he said, unconvincingly.

“I don’t think you could.”

“You don’t know that,” Harry protested.

But Malfoy just quirked a small smile at him, and Harry stared at him, a lump forming in his throat.

He had a duty, as the Chosen One, to do what was necessary to stop Voldemort. But becoming the Saviour they called him meant living (if he lived) the rest of his life with the knowledge that he was a murderer. He’d already killed Quirrell when he was just eleven years old. Out of necessity, yes; maybe even self-defence… but surely that did something to a person? Surely he was _wrong_ , somehow, for even being capable of it?

He didn’t want to be capable of it, and that was what no one seemed to understand. He certainly didn’t want to be capable of killing another wizard with his back turned, or unarmed, or in any other way, really, than in a fair fight, no matter what that meant for his chances of survival.

Malfoy was right. He couldn’t, _wouldn’t_ , compromise any more of who he was to fulfil the ugly task he’d been given.

“Maybe not,” he said, quietly.

Malfoy smirked, rolling onto his back. He stretched, deliberately, so that Harry’s eyes were drawn, irresistibly, to the lean body under that infuriatingly modest tunic. “You know,” Malfoy drawled, “you’re not the only one who’s slept with Finch-Fletchley.”

Harry started to reply irritably that he _did_ know that, thank you very much (and was it too much to ask that his current lover not bring up his ex-lover’s ex-lovers?), when he realised exactly what Malfoy meant. His eyes widened. “You?”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” Malfoy said, dryly. “There’s a dearth of attractive gay boys here at Hogwarts, in case you hadn’t noticed. Of course, Finch-Fletchley turned out to be a waste of effort, but my point is, there’s no reason to assume it was _you_ kissing me that sent him over the edge. It might just as well have been the idea of _me_ kissing anyone.” He gave Harry an arch look. “So, really, it’s the height of arrogance to take any blame for what he did.”

Harry snorted. But he felt a little better anyway, which was weird. “Why did you say Justin wasn’t worth the effort?” he asked, impulsively.

Malfoy yawned. “Finch-Fletchley likes to imagine he’s an expert in the bedroom. He’s not.”

Harry felt his own smile fade. He never had understood why Justin had so suddenly broken up with him, the morning after Harry’s first time. What if he hadn’t just been lashing out? What if he’d been telling the truth? He’d forgotten Justin’s cruel words last night, caught up in the heat of the moment. Instinct had taken over, and he’d come so hard he couldn’t even remember how they’d ended up on the pile of tattered blankets across the other side of the room. But if Malfoy thought Justin was inept in bed… Merlin, what must he think of _Harry_?

“I guess I’m still pretty new to this,” he muttered.

Malfoy laughed quietly, but when Harry looked at him in surprise, he frowned. “Potter,” he began, and then stopped. “I’m _not_ new to this. But you – Potter, you _overpower_ me.”

Harry scratched his head self-consciously. “Um,” he said. “And that’s good?”

“It’s incredible,” Malfoy said, his eyes dark. He rolled over to press a brief kiss against Harry’s lips, and Harry was filled with the sudden, desperate need to _possess_. He forced Draco flat on his back, taking his mouth again, and Draco melted under him, submitting to the kiss in that way Harry was rapidly becoming addicted to, their tongues duelling and dancing together, slick and hot and messy.

They didn’t come up for air for a long time.

~*~

The mirror hiding the secret passage on the fourth floor was in a dimly-lit hallway off the main floor, near the Muggle Studies classroom. It was taller than Hagrid and almost as wide, framed in ornate gold and crusted jewels. It looked ancient. On the wall opposite hung a huge, fraying tapestry of the very same mirror, set in a garden of trailing vines and trees.

Seamus squinted at it. It was designed in such a way that it appeared to be reflecting the actual mirror opposite, which of course was reflecting the tapestry mirror. It caused a never-ending reflection of the same mirror, which was disorienting as well as beautiful. “Cool,” he said.

“It should be in a museum,” Pansy said, awed.

“Half the stuff in this castle belongs in a museum,” Seamus agreed. He waved a hand between the mirrors, and was astonished to see his hand reflected in the tapestry as well as the actual mirror. “Brilliant,” he breathed.

Pansy peered behind the mirror, and frowned. “There’s nothing here. Just blank stone.”

She began muttering revealing spells, to no visible effect. Seamus pondered for a minute, wondering if they’d found the wrong mirror. It wasn’t outside the realm of possibility. Then, on a whim, he pushed the heavy tapestry aside.

“Ah ha!” he said in triumph.

Pansy looked over, and smiled again; the sweet one that spread across her face and lit up her eyes. Seamus felt his heart skip a beat. Godric help him, but he’d do _whatever_ it took to make this girl smile like that every day for the rest of their lives.

“Thank you, Seamus,” she said, resting fingertips on his arm. “I appreciate this.”

Seamus shrugged, trying not to show how affected he was by the simple touch. He’d overheard the two Hufflepuff girls talking to Harry, Ron and Hermione yesterday, and when Pansy had mentioned an unauthorised trip to Hogsmeade, he’d offered up the information in the hope that it would help. “What are we doing, anyway?” he asked. He knew better than to hope it was a date, even though the Enormous Prat was nowhere in sight, and Hogsmeade _was_ the traditional choice for dates, as opposed to hook-ups, which generally took place in the Astronomy Tower.

“I’ve got to deliver a letter,” she explained.

Seamus froze. “Uh,” he stammered. “What’s – er, wrong with the Owlery?”

Pansy glanced at him, her light brown eyes all too perceptive. “Owls can be intercepted,” she said. “And it’s difficult to hide a magical trace signature. The paper, the ink, the handwriting… I daren’t risk it. If the Dark Lord found out I was undermining his hold over the Slytherin students, some of whom are already his loyal Death Eaters…”

“Ohh,” Seamus breathed, relaxing. Of course. “Secret mission. Nice.” Not quite as good as a date, perhaps, but still, no Enormous Prat. He was taking that as a win.

He pushed back the tapestry so she could duck inside.

“Thank you,” she said again, her hand brushing his as she passed. He shivered, ducking in after her. It was a tight fit; there was a small space just inside the entrance, a blanket laid out on the ground, a couple of cushions and a copy of _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ discarded in a corner. The passageway beyond was blocked by a pile of rocks.

Seamus winced at the tiny gap the two Hufflepuffs had obviously wriggled through.

“We’re going to have to use _Interstringo_ ,” Pansy said.

Seamus groaned. “Can’t we just move the rocks?”

“I’m afraid not,” Pansy said. “It looks as if Hogwarts reformed the wards around the rocks when the passage caved in, and the only way through now is where they’ve shifted.” She waved her wand silently. Seamus was impressed; _Interstringo_ was notoriously difficult to master, let alone non-verbally. Only about half the class were able to perform it correctly, and this was the first time he’d seen someone do it non-verbally.

Her body seemed to waver and constrict, until she looked unnaturally narrow. She slid through the gap in the rocks, and Seamus heard a barely compressed ‘pop’ as she regained her normal shape. “Are you all right?” he called.

“Fine,” she replied. “The passage is actually quite wide. It should be fine.” She paused. “You don’t have to come, you know. It’s a long walk, and lunch is only an hour. I have Divination right after.”

“I’m coming,” he said, determined. He settled back on his heels to give himself room to wave his wand, and said very clearly and precisely, “ _Interstringo_.” He felt the unpleasant squeezing sensation immediately, not unlike how it felt to be Side-Along Apparated, when his mam took him along on trips to Diagon Alley, or across the Irish Channel to visit the cousins.

He clambered through the rocks, popping out next to Pansy on the other side.

The way was fairly wide, as she’d said, but not quite tall enough for Seamus to stand straight, so he had to stoop as they walked. The passage slanted steadily downwards, cobwebs _everywhere_ , the air parchment-dry and musty. Seamus just tried not to think about spiders.

By the time it levelled out, the walls were hewn rock, roughly carved, with patches of dark mould. Seamus grimaced every time he felt his hair brush against the ceiling, the occasional cold drip landing on the back of his neck. He shuddered, pulling up the collar of his robes as they walked. “I can’t believe those kids made it this far,” he commented, when the path began a steady climb upwards again. “I’d’ve been scared out of my mind by now.”

She smiled at him. “You, Seamus? A brave and true Gryffindor?”

Seamus snorted. “We can’t all be Harry Potter, battling You-Know-Who at the tender age of eleven.”

Pansy looked at him with interest. “You mean the rumours were true?”

Seamus shrugged. “As far as I know, yeah. Harry doesn’t really talk about it, but Ron told us a bit about what happened. Wasn’t pretty.”

They came to an end in the tunnel, with a small ladder leading up to what looked like a drain cover. Seamus made an elaborate ‘you first’ gesture at it. She acceded, climbing up the ladder as gracefully as if it was something she did every day. She handled her robes around her so skilfully that Seamus didn’t even catch a glimpse of her ankles, which was oddly disappointing. He missed her ankles.

He followed her up, coming out behind The Three Broomsticks, just as the two Hufflepuff girls had said.

They walked around to the front of the pub, and Seamus was surprised at how quiet the street was on a weekday. Hogsmeade was always bustling when they visited, with locals and students and visitors, and even the occasional tourist. The shops with their boarded-up windows were easier to overlook amongst the crowds. Now, Hogsmeade just looked sad, and empty, and Seamus shivered. The war might not have begun in earnest yet, but it was becoming more and more their reality with every passing day.

Pansy put a hand on his arm. “Will you wait for me here?” she asked, quietly. “This is something I have to do alone.”

He considered the question. “Will you have a cup of tea with me afterwards, at Madam Puddifoot’s?”

She raised an eyebrow, looking amused. “Even though we might get reported, and I’ll be late to Divination?” He nodded, giving her his best pleading look. “Very well,” she said, and Seamus could tell she was stifling a smile.

He very carefully waited until her back was turned before he did a happy little jig.

~*~

Ron stared at Harry suspiciously.

There was an oddly-shaped red mark on his neck, and Ron was itching to demand answers from him. At lunch, Harry had rushed off to the library, “to finish my Defence essay,” he’d said, which just made Ron even more suspicious. He’d _seen_ Harry finishing that essay off last week, and he definitely didn’t buy the lame excuse Harry had given Snape. He didn’t just ‘forget’ an essay. Hermione would kill him, for starters.

He would bet anything it had something to do with Malfoy. And he had a horrible, sinking feeling that the mark on his neck had something to do with Malfoy, too.

Luckily, their next class was Charms, and Professor Flitwick was always pretty lenient when it came to talking during his lessons. The first time he turned to write something on the board, Ron leaned in close to Harry. “Is that a _hickey_?” he whispered, accusingly.

Harry twitched. “What?” he said, eyes wide and innocent.

“It _is_ ,” Ron groaned in disgust. “Oh, Merlin. You really slept with the _Ferret_?”

Harry levelled a glare at him for that, so furious that it took Ron aback. “I told you I had to court him seriously,” he whispered, fiercely. “You said you’d support me one hundred percent. I don’t _need_ this from you right now, Ron.”

Ron shut his mouth with a snap, sitting back. He might not be the most sensitive friend, but he knew when he’d pushed too far. “Sorry, mate,” he offered.

Harry just nodded and turned away.

Ron exchanged a speaking glance with Hermione. Harry had always been mercurial in mood; he could work himself up into a screaming fury in just seconds, or become so withdrawn they wouldn’t see him for days. Hermione said it was a result of his abusive childhood, and having met the Dursleys, Ron didn’t doubt that for a second.

She looked thoughtful now; sad. Ron wondered what she knew. Hermione always seemed to be three steps ahead of everyone else, and it drove Ron a little nuts. But then, Hermione always drove him a little nuts.

On their way to dinner, he slowed his steps deliberately, falling behind the group. They were walking with Dean, Seamus and Neville, Seamus enthusiastically outlining a series of plays he thought would benefit Gryffindor in the big game next week. Harry was nodding at appropriate intervals, but Ron got the feeling he wasn’t really listening.

He gave Hermione a significant look, and she followed his lead. The others quickly disappeared around a corner towards the Great Hall, too absorbed in Quidditch strategies to notice their missing friends.

“Did you know Harry was going to sleep with Malfoy?” Ron asked, instantly.

“Of course. Didn’t you?”

“No!” Ron yelped. “I thought that was a _joke_!”

Hermione looked disappointed, and Ron sighed. He hated it when Hermione was disappointed in him. “Harry is in a difficult position, Ronald,” she chided. “We have to be supportive. The closer he gets to convincing Malfoy he’s in love with him, the greater the risk Malfoy will fall for him. You know how those two are. The fire between them wasn’t just going to go away. Without violence as an outlet, it’s just been redirected.”

Ron stared. He wasn’t stupid; he knew exactly what she was implying. “You think Harry _wanted_ to sleep with him?”

“Oh, come off it, Ron,” Hermione said, impatiently. “Of course he did. Why not, if he fancies him?”

“But – but it’s Malfoy,” Ron protested, feeling rather nauseous.

“And it’s Harry,” Hermione said. “ _Our_ Harry. He doesn’t do anything by halves. He doesn’t feel anything by halves. He’s passionate, and giving, and his heart for others has landed him in trouble more times than I can count.”

“Not to mention us,” Ron said, with feeling.

Hermione smiled. “And we wouldn’t have it any other way,” she said. Ron shrugged and nodded. “Harry just has that effect on people. And Malfoy is a special case. He’s been Harry’s nemesis our entire school career. But that’s not the way it started. Don’t you remember our first day? How he wanted to be Harry’s friend, and Harry turned him down? Malfoy’s had that rejection stinging at him ever since. And now Harry’s courting him, giving him his undivided attention; no longer anger and hatred, but compassion, caring, desire… love, even.”

Ron swore. “Merlin’s panties in a twist.”

“Exactly,” Hermione said. “And Harry knows it. He also knows it can’t matter. His priority has to be turning Malfoy, not sparing his feelings. If Malfoy falls in love with him – well, that’s just collateral damage.”

Ron winced. “And being Harry, he’s laying all that guilt on himself.”

“Exactly,” she said. “We have to be supportive, Ron. However this goes down, it’s going to get messy. Harry’s going to need us.”


	10. Chapter 10

**CHAPTER FIVE**

**THE IRRESISTIBLE FORCE**

_She danced the dance of flames and fire,_  
 _And the dance of swords and spears;_  
 _She danced the dance of stars and the dance of space,_  
 _And then she danced the dance of flowers in the wind_  
~ Khalil Gibran

Part One

Harry stood at the window of the DADA classroom, gazing out at the clear, still night. The moon hung heavy on the horizon, white-bright and glowing, its pure, cold brilliance reflected in the quiet water of the lake below.

It reminded him of Malfoy.

Malfoy and his cool grey eyes, piercing and often cruel (and yet, sometimes, strangely soft). The sharp, aristocratic lines of his face. That biting tongue, with its brilliant wit, slinging insults that could freeze you right down to the very bone. His hair; the way it shone in the sunlight, like burnished white-gold. The way it had glowed in the Room that morning, like the soft rays of sunshine piercing the clouds after a summer rain.

He touched his lips involuntarily.

One night together, and already it was so different from what he’d done with Justin that it felt like taking the first, shaky steps out into unknown territory all over again. He was terrified and thrilled and more aroused than he could ever remember being, and scared out of his wits that he was going to fuck it all up.

Granted, they’d done very little, so far. Just those basics Justin had taught him early on; kissing, frotting, hand-jobs. And yet Malfoy had let him hold him down and take control. He’d freely admitted that he had more experience than Harry in the bedroom, and yet he hadn’t minded Harry’s dominance in the least. He’d even _welcomed_ it.

“Ah, Mr Potter,” said a voice, and Harry jumped and whirled. Snape smirked. “I see you’re eager to begin. Come with me.”

He walked down the steps and over to the cupboards that lined the entire right-hand wall. Harry followed him reluctantly, and Snape waited until he was right up close before pulling the first door open. Clouds of dust billowed out, and Harry sneezed at once, violently.

Snape’s smirk widened. “I expect every inch of these cupboards to be spotless and the contents organised and tidied away by the end of your last detention with me on Monday night, Mr Potter. Do you understand?”

Harry grimaced as he pulled out an old book with his thumb and forefinger. It was covered with a thick layer of grime, and what looked like a couple of dead spiders fell out of it onto the floor. “Ew.”

Snape had begun to turn away, but he stopped at that. “Did you say something, Mr Potter?”

“No, sir,” Harry said.

“Naturally, I expect you to do it by hand,” Snape said. “We wouldn’t want to make it too easy, now would we?”

“Of course we wouldn’t,” Harry muttered, under his breath.

The professor dropped a bucket of hot, soapy water and cleaning materials down by Harry with a clatter, and then walked away. He paused at the top of the staircase. “You have ended your relationship with Mr Malfoy,” he said, apropos of nothing.

Harry stiffened. It wasn’t really a question, but it was a definite probe for information. “It was never a relationship, sir.”

“You deny having feelings for him, then?” Snape said. “What exactly _were_ your motives for courting him, Mr Potter?”

“That’s personal,” Harry said, shortly. “Sir.”

Snape glared at him. “I am not blind, Potter,” he said, harshly. “Did you really think you could fool me? I have been marking your essays for six years. I know your style of writing, the way you string your paragraphs together – extremely poorly, I might add. Not to mention the spelling errors you make, time and time again. I even know when Miss Granger has assisted you in the proof-reading, or should I say, _re-writing_ of your work.”

“Sir?” Harry said.

“Do not pretend to misunderstand. I know that you gave your essay to Mr Malfoy to hand in. It was not nearly up to his normal standard of work. I want to know why you did it.”

Harry shrugged. “He almost died on Saturday. He didn’t deserve to be punished for missing a piece of homework, and he told me you’d have no choice.”

Snape’s lip curled up. “If you think for one moment I believe you actually care for him, Potter, you are sorely mistaken. You’re up to something, and I’d better not find out you’ve disobeyed the Headmaster and myself by seeing Mr Malfoy again. The consequences would not be to your liking.”

“Professor Dumbledore already warned me of the consequences, sir,” Harry said.

“Well, let _me_ warn you,” Snape snapped. “This is not a game, nor can you afford to behave like the insufferable child you are anymore. This is war, and in war you must choose those whom you trust very carefully.”

“Like, say, not Death Eaters?” Harry said, challengingly.

Snape sneered right back at him. “You are a fool if you believe the world is so easily separated into black and white. Light and Dark, good and evil. The real world doesn’t work that way, and it is not always clear who your true enemies are.”

“Oh, I’m pretty clear on at least _one_ of them,” Harry said softly, gazing into those dark eyes.

“Then you are a fool,” Snape rasped. He turned on his heel and swept into his office.

Harry stared after him, hands clenching into fists at his sides. He hated Snape. Hated, hated, _hated_ him. He knew Dumbledore trusted him, but what did that even _mean_? Maybe if Dumbledore had ever given him a concrete reason for that trust, but it seemed more likely than ever that Snape was a triple agent, fooling him and working for Voldemort inside Hogwarts. Probably overseeing all the student Death Eaters and their evil little plans.

Except Malfoy, of course. Harry figured no one really knew Snape’s true loyalties except Snape himself, and perhaps Voldemort, which meant trusting him was not an option for Malfoy. Anyone who attempted to interfere with his task _had_ to be suspect. It was the only way to keep his mother safe.

Harry sighed, pulling another grimy book out of the cupboard. A piece of old, crumbling parchment, a used dung-bomb and a set of mouldy keys fell out with it, and he made a face. Trust Snape to find him the dirtiest, most disgusting job possible to fill a week’s worth of detentions.

But he thought of the look on Draco’s face when he’d given him his essay, and the way he’d spread his legs under him that morning, so beautiful and willing and _open_ … and he thought that it was probably worth it.

~*~

Pansy was working on her Arithmancy homework in the common room when Daphne cleared her throat. She glanced up, surprised to see Draco slipping through the door. Nodding her thanks to Daphne, she gathered up her homework, joining him as he reached the boy’s hallway.

“It’s done,” she said, quietly.

Draco’s impassive countenance didn’t flicker. He had always been far better at hiding his emotions than Pansy, but she knew him better than perhaps anyone else in the world, and she could see the relief in his eyes. “Thank you,” he said.

She walked with him down to the sixth-year dorms, pitching her voice very low. “You know I won’t ask questions, love, but Madam Rosmerta… she’s not one of us. I assume that means you have something on her, or you’re controlling her somehow. But she was very – vague, this afternoon. I’m worried your control might be slipping.”

“It’s not slipping,” Draco said, indifferently. “It’s a long term complication of the Imperius Curse.”

Pansy’s breath caught in her throat. She knew she had been sheltered from her father’s involvement in Death Eater activities; that was her mother’s influence in her upbringing. Draco, on the other hand, had been immersed in that life from a very young age. But an Unforgivable? And to maintain it over such a long period of time; long enough to cause that kind of – of _emptiness_ , as if Rosmerta wasn’t even really _there_ anymore...

“Antipodean Opaleye,” Draco said to the snakes, and the door swung open with a whisper of a hiss.

Pansy smiled, despite herself. That was undoubtedly Draco’s choice of password. He was endearingly predictable, at times.

He led her into his private room, past Vince and Greg snoring over their homework.

The wards that would allow them to speak freely snapped into place behind them. They had woven these wards around his room together; added layer upon layer over the years, until the wards were woven so tightly together it would be nigh on impossible to detect even the use of Unforgivables inside the room, and certainly any attempt to eavesdrop would be greatly discouraged.

“You’re upset with me,” he said.

“No,” she corrected him, settling into the armchair by the fire. “I’m scared for you, Draco. You’re juggling far too much right now. Madam Rosmerta, your task, your Occlumency shields, Snape, your schoolwork, _Potter_ … and now you’ve fallen even further in the Dark Lord’s graces.”

“I know,” Draco said, running a hand through his hair. It was an indication of his agitation, Pansy thought, that he didn’t immediately seek out a mirror to smooth it down again. Instead, he paced across the room and stood staring down into the fire. “Madam Rosmerta will deliver the letter by this evening, at the latest. My hope is that it appeases him, at least for now. I just – I have to focus on my task now. I’m running out of time.”

Pansy nodded. “I was surprised to see you back so early.”

Draco didn’t look at her. “I didn’t intend to be, but Professor Snape never keeps students in detention past ten o’clock.”

Pansy frowned. “You mean Potter?”

Draco nudged a smouldering log with the tip of his shoe. “Of course Potter,” he said, bitterly. “He’s everywhere. I can’t think straight around him. I’m losing perspective, and I can’t afford that right now. He’s just so –”

“Hot?” Pansy suggested, with a little smirk she didn’t really feel.

Draco didn’t notice, of course. He never did, anymore. He had always been the one person she was always completely honest with, whether she wanted to be or not; the one person who knew her so well she could never hide from him. They were each other’s safe haven. And now it seemed she was lying to him with every breath, and he couldn’t see it, and it was tearing her apart.

“Powerful,” Draco said, slowly. The word rolled off his tongue as if he was tasting it. “He’s _powerful_ , Pansy. This morning, he performed what I originally thought was a transfiguration of a pile of blankets into a bed, wandlessly and non-verbally. While we were on it. Which was incredible enough. But this evening, when I returned, it was gone. Not transfigured back. I could see the last traces of the magic fading. He conjured a complex, _solid_ illusion, Pans. I’ve never seen anything like it.” He was silent for a moment. “But that’s not all. His power doesn’t just come from his magic. It’s his aura, his physicality, his – his _presence_.”

A fine tremor shook him, and Pansy couldn’t breathe for a moment. “ _Draco_ ,” she said, scandalised. “Morgana’s breath. Tell me you didn’t sleep with him!” His eyelids fell instantly, shuttering his expression, and there was only one reason for him to do that with her. He was on the defensive, afraid of her reaction. Which meant – “Merlin, what were you _thinking_?”

His hand tightened on the mantelpiece above the fire, knuckles whitening. It was the only visible sign of his distress, but it was telling. “You don’t understand.”

“I think I do.” It had been nothing more than a fool’s hope, really, that Potter wouldn’t take his courtship that tiny, extra step to intimacy. A fool’s hope, to think that Draco would stand firm against him. “Oh, Draco. You promised. You _promised_.”

“I had sex with him,” Draco said, dryly. “I didn’t lose my mind.”

“I’m not sure there’s much of a difference,” Pansy said. He snorted reluctantly, kicking off his shoes and outer robes to fling himself down in front of the fire, and Pansy marvelled as always at his easy grace. “You’re a Slytherin, Draco,” she said. “Have you forgotten that?”

“Of course not,” he retorted. “It was just sex. There’s nothing more Slytherin than using someone for your own pleasure.” Pansy didn’t deign that with a reply, and Draco’s mouth twisted. “I know. I _know_ , Pans. But he gave me his Defence essay. He saved my _life_ , again. Without it, I would have been expelled; McGonagall and Dumbledore have been making noises for months about one more infraction being my last. And then everything I’ve worked for – my mother and I – my _mother_ –” His voice cracked.

Pansy sighed. “I understand.”

“Well, _I_ don’t,” Draco said, frustrated. “It doesn’t matter what his motivations are. I should be trying to turn this thing with Potter to the Dark Lord’s advantage. But I’m too tired, too stupid. I can’t _think_ around him. It’s absurd, and dangerous, and I don’t know what the bloody hell I’m _doing_.”

“What you’re doing,” Pansy said, firmly, “is worrying about the wrong thing. Forget trying to turn the situation to the Dark Lord’s advantage. It’s you that matters.”

“I know my duty,” Draco said, frowning at her. “Family comes first. My parents, my children. My _children’s_ children.”

“Yes,” Pansy agreed. “As long as you’re still certain the best chance for that life is with the Dark Lord.”

His gaze sharpened, became quizzical, and she met it steadily, barely breathing. “You know I loathe him as much as you do,” Draco said. “But you cannot seriously be considering defection.”

“Of course not,” she lied, calmly. “I just wonder how long you can keep doing this. The Dark Lord will not reward you for succeeding in your task. He’ll spare your life, but that is not what you deserve. That is not what a Malfoy deserves.”

He gave her a tiny smile. “Well, we are agreed on that, at least.”

“You must have thought about Potter’s offer. It must be tempting. He could be the only one who could actually fulfil a promise like that.”

“Ah.” Draco cocked his head to one side. “You think _I_ might be considering defection.”

“Are you?” Pansy asked.

“Potter might be powerful, but that doesn’t mean he’s trustworthy,” Draco assured her. “Even if I wanted to, I would never take that risk with my mother’s life.”

She nodded. “So what are you going to do?”

Draco sighed. “Remove myself from the dance, I suppose.”

Pansy’s eyebrows rose. “The ‘dance’,” she echoed. “You think Potter’s dancing with you?”

Draco shrugged slightly. “Less than a fortnight ago, I would have said he lacked even the ability to be _polite_ , let alone sustain a courtship longer than a day. He’s never shown the least inclination towards artifice or guile before now; he wears his heart on his sleeve, almost deliberately revealing his vulnerabilities to those who seek to hurt him. Did you know he let _Finch-Fletchley_ screw him over?”

“Seamus might have mentioned something to that effect,” Pansy agreed.

Draco grimaced. “Oh, Merlin. Don’t tell me you’re still letting that Gryffindor pup drool all over you?”

She smiled. “I’m not sure you have a leg to stand on in that regard anymore, darling.”

Draco snorted. “Touché. Well, then, I suppose your pup told you Finch-Fletchley took Potter’s virginity and then broke up with him the morning after?”

“No,” Pansy said. “I don’t think Seamus is that far inside the Chosen One’s confidence.”

She saw the moment this registered with him; the slow shiver of pleasure that forced his eyes shut, fingers and toes curling against the thick rug. “Salazar’s _balls_.” His eyes opened, and there was true anguish in them. “How can he _do_ this to me, Pans? When I’ve wanted for so –” He cut himself off abruptly. “I don’t have _time_ , and it’s not _fair_.”

“You want to dance with him,” Pansy realised, only a very little innuendo in her tone. She understood now. Draco wanted to fuck Potter, of course, but what he really wanted was to _play_. To pit his wits against an opponent worthy of him. “I’m so sorry, love.”

He looked at her wryly. “Not your fault, Pans.”

“Of course it’s not,” she said, without a shred of truth. “But I hate being so helpless.”

Draco smiled. “You helped by delivering that letter, and you hated every minute of it. Don’t even try to deny it.”

Pansy smiled back at him, thinking how lovely he looked with a genuine emotion on his lips, in his eyes. “You know I’d do anything for you.”

“I know,” Draco agreed. “That’s why I promised myself I wouldn’t involve you in this. Not after what he did to your mother. I’m sorry.”

Pansy didn’t let herself flinch. “You’re not sorry,” she said, very lightly. Draco looked away. He knew he’d hit a nerve, and he didn’t dispute the move away from the gravity of their conversation. She stood and walked over to him, bending to kiss his cheek goodnight. “You use me shamelessly,” she said, close to his ear. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Draco leaned back on his elbows, shaking his head at her. “Go away, you daft bint. Let me sleep.”

“I could only wish,” Pansy said, and then ducked out of the room before he could cast a hex at her. She heard it bounce off the wards, and Draco’s yelp as it ricocheted back at him, and walked away chuckling.

~*~

Harry rested his chin in his hands. “He’s avoiding me,” he said, moodily.

“Hm?”

Harry cast his friends an irritated glance. Hermione had finished her porridge and was engaged in braiding little Eliza’s hair while Ron made faces with his bacon and eggs, keeping Jenny in fits of the giggles. It made Harry wonder if this was how they’d look with their own kids, twenty years from now, and it made something twist in his chest, painful and lonely.

“Malfoy,” he repeated. He stared morosely over at the Slytherin table, where Malfoy was sitting with his back very determinedly turned to Harry. “He’s avoiding me.”

Ron followed his gaze dubiously. “Looks like he’s eating his breakfast, mate.”

“Exactly!” Harry said, in frustration. “He’s eaten every meal for the past two days in the Great Hall. He gets to class early and sits with Parkinson, or Zabini. He disappears into the Room of Requirement during his free periods, or between classes, and won’t open the door to me. And by the time I finish detention with Snape in the evening, he’s already back in Slytherin.”

Hermione hummed under her breath. “Well. That does sound like he’s trying to avoid you.”

“ _Thank_ you,” Harry said.

“On the plus side, at least he’s eating properly now,” she continued cheerfully, finishing a braid and tying it off. “I know that was worrying you.”

Harry frowned. “I wasn’t worried. It was just a way to get him to talk to me, that’s all.”

“Of course,” Hermione said, in a tone which implied she was just humoring him. Harry’s glower deepened. “We knew this wasn’t going to be easy, Harry,” she said, more sympathetically. “You’ve done remarkably well, really. He went with you to Hogsmeade, and he let you inside the Room where he’s working on his task – both significant accomplishments. You’ve obviously managed to get under his skin, and that’s the first step. You just need to keep working at it.”

“I suppose,” he sighed.

“I’m meeting Pansy in the library this afternoon for party planning,” Hermione said. Harry glanced over at the Slytherin table, where Pansy and Malfoy sat together. His hair looked so soft and perfect from behind, and Harry desperately wanted to just walk over there and run his fingers through it, tilt his head back, bend down and… “I could – Harry? Are you listening? Harry?”

“Yes, yes,” he said, distractedly. It was worse now he actually knew what Malfoy looked like post-orgasm, his face soft and relaxed, hair mussed from Harry’s fingers. As if he was just begging to be touched again, and again …

“Harry!”

“Sorry,” he said guiltily, tearing his gaze away from Malfoy to look at her. “What were you saying?”

“Just that Pansy might –” She cut herself off abruptly as a pale little slip of a girl suddenly appeared at Ron’s shoulder. She was tiny, obviously a first year, with long, dark hair and soulful brown eyes, and Slytherin robes draped over her thin shoulders.

“ _Adeline_!” Jenny bounced to her feet enthusiastically. “This is Adeline, everyone!” she said. “Our Slytherin friend! Adeline, this is Ron, and Hermione, and Harry Potter.”

Adeline looked uneasy, eyes darting around. “I don’t think I should be here,” she said.

“Why not?” Jenny asked, wide-eyed.

“It’s _Harry Potter_ ,” Adeline said, with great emphasis.

Harry sighed. “Yeah. But don’t worry, I won’t bite.”

She looked a little horrified. “Why would you _bite_ me?”

Harry choked down a laugh. “Good question,” he said, gravely. “It’s a Muggle expression, I guess.”

Adeline considered him, thoughtful. “My mother was Muggleborn,” she said. “I never heard her say anything like that.”

“Me too,” Harry said, surprised. “I mean, my mum was Muggleborn too, but she died when I was little.” He smiled awkwardly. “Which I suppose you know. I grew up with Muggles, though, so I guess that’s where I learnt it.” He paused. “Come to think of it, my cousin Dudley _does_ bite.”

The girls giggled.

Adeline said, carefully, “My mother was murdered last year. My father is fifth generation pureblood, of the Cardosa family.”

“I’m sorry about your mum,” Harry said.

Ron and Hermione echoed the sentiment automatically. Harry thought it was a sign of just how bad things were getting, that none of them were surprised anymore to hear of another death, another loss.

“Thank you,” Adeline said, very politely, and maybe it was just that he had Malfoy on his mind, but Harry couldn’t help comparing her to his memory of a younger Draco; spit and polish, upright and so, so proud. She even _sounded_ like Malfoy. He stifled a grin. It wouldn’t surprise him in the least if the Slytherins took lessons from each other.

Adeline turned to tug on Eliza’s sleeve. “We have to get to class,” she reminded them.

“As do we,” Hermione said, briskly.

Harry realised most of the other students were already gone. There were a couple of stragglers snagging the last pieces of toast on their way out, and Neville came in at a dead run, skidding past the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables to grab half a sausage from the skeletal remains of the Gryffindor breakfast table. He paused when he saw them.

“I thought _I_ was late. Aren’t you coming to Charms?” he asked, breathlessly.

“On our way,” Harry agreed, and threw his bag over his shoulder as Ron scoffed down the last kipper.

~*~

Professor Flitwick made them stay ten minutes after class to make up for the five minutes they’d missed, but since they had a free period, and since Flitwick was more interested in helping them learn than punishing them, it turned out to be more of a reward than a penalty. They walked back to Gryffindor together, and Harry found himself pouring out his dilemma to Neville, who was always a sympathetic sounding board.

“So now I can’t even get close enough to him to _talk_ to him,” he finished, sighing.

Neville looked curious and a little confused. “Seamus said you were trying to bring Malfoy over to our side by courting him. I guess I didn’t realise that meant you had to sleep with him.”

Harry winced. “I didn’t plan it,” he said. “But we have a lot of bad history between us. I needed some kind of common ground, and – well, I’m just making it up as I go along. I’ve never courted anyone.”

“I think it’s nice,” Neville said. “Gran always says it’s sad courtships are a thing of the past. She says it was really beautiful in her day, with dances, and chaperoned walks in the park, and stolen kisses on the balcony under the stars.” He smiled. “You know my dad courted my mum when they were at school here?”

“Really?”

“It was still pretty common when my Gran was a girl,” Neville explained. “Dad wanted to show her that he was serious, even though they were so young, and that his intentions towards my mum were honourable. Gran agreed, and her parents were thrilled, of course, because she was happy. They were married right out of school.”

Harry smiled briefly. “That’s a great story, Nev. But my intentions toward Malfoy aren’t exactly honourable.”

“You’re not deliberately trying to hurt him,” Neville pointed out. “And anyway, aren’t you doing this to save the whole world from V-Voldemort? I’d say that’s pretty honourable.”

“I suppose,” Harry sighed. “Doesn’t make me feel any less dirty.”

Neville was silent for a long moment. “You feel like you’re selling yourself for the cause.”

“Or him,” Harry agreed. “When I was with him… I don’t know.” He shook his head. “It was different to how I imagined it. _He_ was different. And now he’s avoiding me, and I don’t know what to do.”

Neville considered. “This is probably a stupid idea –”

“At this point I’m about ready to lay siege to Slytherin,” Harry assured him. He wasn’t even entirely joking. “Any and all suggestions are welcome, believe me.”

“Well,” Neville said, hesitantly, “you know Professor McGonagall believes in just punishment. She almost always assigns people who’ve been fighting with each other to do their detentions together.”

“So pick a fight with Malfoy in Professor McGonagall’s classroom?” Harry stared at him, surprised into a genuine, if horrified, laugh. “Merlin’s shaggy beard. Are you crazy? We’d be in detention for the rest of our _lives_.”

Neville grinned. “Probably. But at least you’d be in detention together, right?”

“I take it back,” Harry said. “I’m nowhere near that desperate yet.”

~*~

Three days later, he was past that desperate.

Every attempt he’d made to get close to Malfoy had been met with rejection, and it was driving him _mad_. His first real opportunity to do something concrete for the war effort, and it was slipping like so much sand through his fingers. It just didn’t make sense. Everything had been going so well. Their first date might have been a disaster, but Hermione was right; he was lucky to have even gotten that far. And then to have made it into the Room of Requirement at long last, not to mention getting Malfoy into _bed_ with him...

Could all that really have been for nothing?

No. No, he refused to believe that. Not just for his own sake, or the sake of the wizarding world – but for Parkinson and Malfoy and prim and proper little Adeline, and all the other Slytherins who were just children caught up on the wrong side of the war.

And maybe it was selfish, but he couldn’t bear that it was happening _again_. That the second boy he’d ever had sex with had, for all intents and purposes, broken up with him the morning after – even if they’d never actually made it to the main event this time.

So it was that in the middle of his next Transfiguration class, he found himself hurrying over to the table where Malfoy sat with Zabini, under the guise of capturing his wild red squirrel (who didn’t seem to appreciate having a stiff silver tail, even if Harry thought it was kind of handsome).

He stumbled when he reached Malfoy’s table, yelled “OW!” and swung around to glare at the other boy.

Malfoy’s head snapped up. He stared at Harry in surprise.

“What the bloody hell did you do _that_ for?” Harry yelled furiously, holding onto his shin and hopping on one foot.

“ _Mr_ Potter!” Professor McGonagall said, from across the room. “I will not tolerate that kind of language in my classroom!”

Harry made sure his back was towards her, so she couldn’t see his mouth move as he murmured, “ _Vocem mutare Draco_ ,” and then said in a ringing voice, “Fuck you, Potter!”

“Mr Malfoy!” McGonagall snapped.

Malfoy’s mouth dropped open. “Potter!” he said, outraged, and Harry just smiled sweetly, lunging towards him and toppling him to the ground. Zabini squawked, only just moving out of the way in time to avoid being pulled down with them. The class erupted. Malfoy struggled, kicking out ineffectively as Harry pinned his arms to the ground and pretended to try to get to his wand.

And then suddenly they were whisked apart by an invisible force, and McGonagall was bearing down on them with wrath in her eyes. “What in the _name of heaven_ is going on here?”

“Malfoy started it!” Harry said instantly, rubbing his shin.

Professor McGonagall eyed him severely. “I expect better from you, Mr Potter. And _you_ , Mr Malfoy, are skating on _very_ thin ice indeed.”

“Draco didn’t do anything, Professor,” Nott said, rising to his feet. Daphne was sitting next to him, her eyes watchful, looking between Harry and Malfoy thoughtfully. “It was all Potter!”

McGonagall frowned at him. “Sit down, Mr Nott!”

“Professor Snape is already making me do detention with _him_ ,” Harry whined, deliberately.

McGonagall’s face grew even sterner. “Well, you will serve detention with me as well, Mr Potter. Both of you. I will not have my students behaving in such a disgraceful manner, especially not those nearing the end of their sixth year! You should both know better.”

“Professor –” Malfoy said, but the glare she gave him was sufficient to stop any further protest in its tracks.

“ _Sit_ ,” she said, and waited until they had both regained their seats and the squirrel had been deposited back on Harry’s desk by a confused and somewhat worried-looking Hermione. “I will expect you both for your detention at seven o’clock tomorrow evening.”

Harry stifled a smile.

~*~

He suffered through his last detention with Snape that night, who seemed disappointed that Harry had managed to re-organise and clean the entire cupboard in the week’s worth of evenings allotted to him. He made up for it, of course, with a mark on Harry’s new DADA essay that made Hermione give an involuntary cry of dismay, and vow to spend the rest of the evening re-assessing their entire study plan.

Still, Harry thought it was a good thing they had so many ‘free’ periods this year, or there was no way he would have managed to complete even half of the homework they were being assigned. It seemed the closer they got to the exams, the more work was piled on, and he hadn’t counted on this many detentions.

He spent Tuesday frantically trying to catch up on Herbology and Potions, the two subjects he’d let lapse over the past week, on the theory that in Potions, at least, he had the Half-Blood Prince to help him, and Herbology was the one subject he could usually cruise through fairly easily.

Fortunately, they were working in groups at the moment, and Hermione was never behind in her homework and class preparation.

“Is he looking at me?” he whispered to Ron, while Hermione diligently tested the pH of the soil of their newly-potted Dittany.

Ron’s face screwed up, but he looked over at Malfoy’s group obediently. “Uh. Glaring might be a better word, mate,” he offered.

Harry shrugged. “At least he’s not ignoring me anymore.”

“I guess he’s not, at that,” Ron said long-sufferingly, and Harry glanced at him suspiciously. But there was no sarcasm in his voice; in fact, Ron had been astonishingly supportive over the past few days. Perhaps _too_ supportive. Harry suspected Hermione’s influence.

She looked up at that moment, annoyed. “Boys,” she hissed. “Pay attention.”

Harry exchanged a grin with Ron, and they bent to their task again. He didn’t see Malfoy again until that evening, when he made his way to the Transfiguration classroom for detention. It was almost painful to drag himself away from all the homework waiting for his attention, and he couldn’t help but wonder if this was how Malfoy had felt, all year.

“ _You_!”

Harry turned, trying not to smile.

“What in the _seven_ _hells_ , Potter?” Malfoy said, his face twisted in fury, wand out and pointed straight at Harry’s throat. “You could have gotten me expelled with that little performance!”

Harry let the old, familiar anger well up in him. “I knew what I was doing,” he snarled, stepping forward so that Malfoy’s wand dug into the base of his throat. “She’s more angry at me than you. And I wouldn’t have had to do it at all if you’d just _talked_ to me. But you _slept_ with me, made me think you might like me back, a little, and then you do _this_. The same thing Justin did. When you _knew_ – when I _told_ you –” His voice cracked embarrassingly, and he looked away.

Malfoy paused. He took a measured step back, lowering his wand slightly. “You make it too easy, Potter.”

Harry frowned. “That’s not fair.”

“Nothing’s fair,” Malfoy retorted. “Isn’t that what you said? We’re stuck in the middle of a war started years before we were even born?”

“But we make our own choices,” Harry argued. “We have to take responsibility for the consequences of those choices.”

“And my choice was my family,” Malfoy said.

Harry sighed, deflating. “I get that,” he said, reaching out to touch Malfoy’s cheek. “I do. Family is important to you.”

“Family is _everything_ to me,” Malfoy corrected, even as he tilted his head into the caress.

Harry cupped his cheek obligingly, sliding his other hand around Malfoy’s waist to rest in the small of his back. Malfoy didn’t resist, and Harry pulled him closed, brushing his cheek with his lips. “I know,” he murmured. “I just want you so much, you have no idea _._ Why does it have to be one or the other?”

“You know why,” Malfoy said, his eyes closing.

Harry kissed his cheek again, and then the corner of his mouth. “I really, really like you,” he murmured, almost inaudibly. “I think I –”

“Don’t,” Malfoy interrupted, stiffening in Harry’s arms. His voice was strained. “ _Don’t_. You can’t – you don’t even _know_ me –”

“I know enough,” Harry told him, kissing him properly, sweet and gentle and coaxing. “I know I could love you, if you’d let me. Just,” he began trailing kisses down to Malfoy’s jaw, “please, let me?”

Malfoy’s arms lifted, almost involuntarily, wrapping around Harry’s back. “You’re mad,” he said, breathless. “Potter, this is – you’re _mad_ –”

Harry bit down gently, sucking a mark in just under Malfoy’s jaw. He slipped his hands down to Draco’s arse, pulling his hips closer, tighter against his own. He was so lost in the taste of that soft skin, in the crush of their erections, that he almost didn’t register the sound of approaching footsteps.

He sprang back just as Professor McGonagall turned the corner.

She stopped short, looking at Malfoy, flushed and panting, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, and Harry, in much the same state, expression guilty as he stared back at her. “Mr Potter, Mr Malfoy,” she said, her tone freezing. “I hope you have not been fighting _again_.”

“No, professor,” Harry said, trying to project as much sincerity as possible at her. Malfoy echoed him quietly, eyes on the ground, adjusting his robes with small, spasmodic twitches.

Professor McGonagall looked unconvinced, but she gestured to the classroom. “In you go, then.”

They followed her meekly, and Harry let his hand brush against Malfoy’s as they passed through the door. Just that brief contact left them both gasping, and McGonagall frowned at them. She directed them to sit at the desk right in front of her, where she could keep an eye on them, and handed them quills and parchment.

They wrote lines, for the whole two hours McGonagall held them there, thighs pressed hotly up against each other.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone leaving comments and kudos!

**CHAPTER FIVE**

**THE IRRESISTIBLE FORCE**

Part Two

After their detention, McGonagall let them go with a strict warning not to let their passion overrule their common sense again, and Draco was hard-pressed not to let his amusement show. Bloody Potter was no help, of course, choking with mingled hilarity and shock next to him. He managed to make some sort of response that satisfied the professor, even if his voice was slightly strangled, and then herded Potter away before the barmy sod could provoke McGonagall into serving them yet _another_ detention.

As soon as they were around a corner and out of sight, Potter grabbed his hand and pulled him into an alcove, wrapping him up in his arms. “Kiss me,” he demanded.

Draco did, feeling the slow burn of pleasure that was Potter’s lips on his, Potter’s hands insinuating themselves into his robes, touching his skin...

_I know I could love you. Just, please, let me?_

“You just wasted two hours of my time,” he said.

“I should make it up to you, then,” Potter replied, pushing him up against a wall and biting into his mouth. Draco moaned, letting him deepen the kiss, pin his arms above his head and drive his hips hard into Draco’s.

“This isn’t – exactly – what I had in mind,” he said, in between slow, drugging kisses.

“No?” Potter said, interestedly.

Draco leaned away as much as he could, with Potter plastered to his front and the unyielding wall at his back. It was completely insane, but he felt oddly safe. “Whatever fantasies your perverted little mind is coming up with right now, Potter – just, _no_. I meant I have to get back to work.”

“Work,” Potter echoed, and Draco flinched. But Potter looked apologetic, pressing a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I’m sorry. I honestly didn’t mean to take time away from your task. It’s just, you were ignoring me, and –”

Draco sighed and let his forehead rest against Potter’s. “You don’t have to apologise. I’m not getting anywhere on it, anyway.”

“So stay for a while,” Potter pleaded. He cupped Draco’s arse in his hands, making him gasp and jerk forward, into Potter’s hips. Potter’s eyes darkened. “I want you.”

Draco swallowed. There was no mistaking his intent, and the thought of being fucked by his arch nemesis sent a shiver run down his spine to settle, quivering, in the small of his back. He didn’t resist when Potter began to fumble with the clasps of his robes. “You’re showing your Muggle upbringing again,” he said. Potter was already tugging at them in frustration. “Don’t you _dare_ rip them this time!” he said, sharply.

“Teach me, then.”

Draco smirked. “Maybe if I had all year.” He shook his wand into his hand and twirled it in three tight circles. The robes came undone, and Potter shoved them aside impatiently, sliding proprietary hands up under the tunic. He touched Draco’s skin greedily, sliding around to knead his arse, and Draco moaned, dropping his wand to sink his fingers into Potter’s thick hair. He pulled him into a rough kiss, and Potter didn’t disappoint; biting into his mouth, sucking on his tongue.

He drew back to whisper, “Can I –?”

Draco met the dark, lust-drowned eyes. “ _Yes_.”

Potter grinned fiercely, cupping his hands under Draco’s arse and hoisting him up against the wall. He murmured, “ _Aperti lubrico_ ”, the lubrication and stretching spell every gay boy in Hogwarts knew by the age of fifteen.

Draco arched and whimpered as the spell opened him, silently blessing Potter for being so uncharacteristically coordinated. Personally, he’d never be able to work a wand right now; not with Potter rubbing up against him, hot and hard and intoxicating. Then Potter thrust into him, steady, relentless, and he cried out, shuddering with the power behind it, the power that opened him further than anyone else had before.

He never noticed that Potter had no wand in his hand.

~*~

The next morning, Slughorn took them outside to bury their Resolution Potions beneath the cherry blossom trees on the west lawn. The trees were in full bloom, delicate pink and white blossoms trembling on slender branches, the gentlest of breezes sending them drifting down to rest on the thick carpet of grass below.

“Did you know that wands made of cherry wood typically choose people who are _extremely_ grounded, level-headed, logical and rational thinkers, and yet have a wild and passionate side?” Hermione said, almost dancing with excitement.

Harry rolled his eyes, rescuing their tiny vial of shimmering gold from her. “Your wand is vine wood, Hermione. It’s perfect for you.”

“I know,” she said, slightly wistful as she stared up at the blossoms, “and I’d never cheat on my wand, of course.” Harry smothered a snort, and Hermione grinned at him. “Still, you have to admit, a cherry wand would be _lovely_.”

“I think it would suit you,” said a drawling voice from behind them. Harry found himself breathless and eager and, incomprehensibly, smiling as he turned. “After all,” Draco said, his hooded eyes lingering on Harry, almost _screaming_ sex, “they say all the great Seers had cherry wands. In fact, I believe Professor Trelawney has one.”

Hermione’s expression of horror made Harry laugh. He felt giddy with just _how_ _much_ he felt for Draco. He’d never topped before. Justin hadn’t liked the idea of letting a virgin do that to him, so Harry had bottomed for his first time. And then of course, that had been the end of that.

But, in the end, topping had come naturally to him. And it had been _so good_.

“Not funny, Harry!” Hermione hissed, drawing herself up. She nodded at Draco. “Malfoy.”

“Granger,” he returned.

She raised an eyebrow. “No insults today? No ‘Buck-Teeth’, or ‘the Weasel’s pet lover’, or your favourite, ‘Mudblood’?”

“It has its charms,” Draco agreed, and Harry could almost hear Hermione’s teeth grinding together. Draco raised his eyebrows at Harry, and Harry understood that this was a test. _You say you could love me, Potter. Could you? Could you really?_ “Of course, nothing compares to the satisfaction of hearing it out of the mouth of the Mudblood herself.”

Hermione sucked in a sharp breath.

Harry saw red. Everything he hated about Malfoy suddenly roared back to life, and that strong, tempestuous rage swept through him like a forest-fire, wild and destructive. He couldn’t even blame this one on Voldemort; it was a rage that had always been with him. The rage of the helpless, the downtrodden, the neglected and abused. It was a rage he had no desire to control. Besides, it would give him so much _satisfaction_ to pummel Malfoy into next week.

And then his rage was echoed, doubling again and again as it ricocheted through his connection to Voldemort’s mind. He didn’t fight it. He _wanted_ it.

Until, suddenly, he saw Draco’s face.

The chin that jutted out, defiant. Those sweetly pouting lips, pressed firmly together. Those grey eyes, the colour of the storm in Harry’s soul, alight with challenge and interest. He wanted Harry to lose his temper. Or rather, he wanted Harry to react. He wanted to see what Harry would do.

Well. Harry didn’t want to disappoint him.

Holding Draco’s gaze with his own, he moved forward, lifting a hand. Draco flinched almost imperceptibly. An ugly part of Harry actually enjoyed that expression of fear, but, “I’m not going to hit you,” he said, trailing a gentle finger down Draco’s angry, red scar. “And I’m not going to let a couple of childish insults drive me away.”

Draco shook his head, but he didn’t move away. “You’re barmy, Potter.”

A number of retorts sprang to mind, but Harry discarded them all as too obvious. He settled for a simple, “Does that matter?”

Draco looked thoughtful. “Interesting question,” he said. “What matters, I mean, to me. Do you really want to know?”

“I want to know everything about you,” Harry said, and he realised he wasn’t lying. The rage was gone, as if it had never existed.

Draco’s reply was drowned out by Slughorn’s bellow, encouraging the class to pick a cherry tree and “start digging!” Hermione tugged at Harry’s sleeve, and Draco frowned and turned away. But Harry had a point to make, and he didn’t let him get far. As soon as Draco was crouched down at the base of a nearby tree with Pansy, he raised his wand and sent a little breeze at the branches above. The blossoms trembled and fell in a shower of pink-and-white, landing light as will-o’-wisps in Draco’s hair, on his shoulders, in the creases of his summer robes.

Draco exclaimed in annoyance, reaching up to pluck a flower from his hair. Then his eyes caught Harry’s, and he stilled. Harry shrugged, smiling a little, and Draco broke eye contact in confusion. But he left the cherry blossoms in his hair, and Harry wore a foolish grin for the rest of the day.

~*~

Pansy was still picking the flowers out of Draco’s hair after lunch.

She was surprised at how well he was taking it, especially given the raised eyebrows it had caused in Slytherin. Then again, Draco had been ruled by what other people thought of him for far too long. It was about time he threw off that debilitating fear and started living life for himself.

Just as soon as he let Potter rescue him from this hopeless fucking situation, anyway.

She shook her head as she picked out the last cherry blossom, which had somehow managed to entangle itself in the hair at the nape of his neck. “Unbelievable,” she said.

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Did you say something?”

“Not a thing, dearest,” she said, innocently. “Though I do have to wonder why you let him do this to you. You were so adamant about ‘removing yourself from the dance’, just last week.”

Draco shrugged. “He is the irresistible force,” he murmured. “And I, apparently, am not as immovable as I thought.”

“Oh for Merlin’s sake!” Pansy snapped, suddenly irritated beyond belief. “Anyone would think you were in _love_ with the boy.”

He stared at her. “Pansy...”

“I’m sorry.” She held up her hands. “I _am_ sorry, darling. But it’s Potter. You’ve been obsessed with him ever since you met. And now he wants to date you, and he’s not going to leave you alone to focus on your task. He’s already proved that. You can’t keep fighting him like this; it’s wearing you out. Why don’t you just let him have his way? If he’s got ulterior motives, they’ll come to light that much faster, and if he doesn’t – if he really _is_ genuine – well then, maybe he can help you.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “I've told you, I won’t take that risk with my mother’s life.”

“I know,” she agreed. “And I would never suggest you do. Just string him along. Dance with him a little. I know you want to, and at the very least, you’ll save yourself the trouble of another incident like Transfiguration. Or that frankly ridiculous show this morning.”

“Weigh the costs against the benefits,” Draco said, slowly. “Easier to date him than deal with his relentless pursuit.”

“Exactly,” Pansy said.

Draco looked at her for a moment. “You might be right,” he conceded.

She smiled. “I’m always right. You deserve to enjoy yourself, Draco. Stop this push and pull, let loose and forget about the consequences for a while.”

“Pans, we’re not talking detention and a slap on the wrist here –”

“I’m aware of that,” she said, sharply. “The question is, are you? You’re running out of time. You know what they say about insanity: casting the same spell over and over again, and expecting different results. You can’t keep doing what you’re doing. It’s not working. Maybe letting Potter court you will give you the fresh perspective – the fresh eyes – you need. And, if nothing else, maybe the sex will relax you enough to let you sleep. Morgana knows you need it.”

Draco sighed. “Are you ever going to stop mothering me, Pans?”

“Not until you’re old and grey,” she said, tartly. “And maybe not even then.”

He rolled his eyes. “Daft bloody bint. I have to get to class.”

Pansy resolutely didn’t smile, waving him off. But she took the stairs to Divination with a spring in her step that she couldn’t quite suppress. Draco hadn’t exactly said yes, or even that he would think about it, but he hadn’t said no. That was close enough, for a Slytherin.

Maybe there was hope, after all, for her plan to work. Maybe there was _hope_.

~*~

As always, the Divination classroom was filled with Professor Trelawney’s favourite perfume, sweet and cloying. Fortunately, though, the dark red scarves were gone from the lamps, the curtains had been opened, and the room was filled with natural light.

They were practicing the art of scrying this semester, and for that they needed clear vision. It was a fascinating subject. Unlike the many other forms of Divination, scrying actually involved seeing real visions of the future. It wasn’t “educated guesswork” – all it required was an interpretation. That was something which particularly appealed to Pansy. The future had never been more uncertain, and she found herself longing for some certainty.

Such as, just for example, a vision that showed herself and her friends happy, and safe, and rid of any megalomaniacs bent on world domination.

The trouble was, Divination was never that straightforward. It was one of the first things Professor Trelawney had taught them, and, true to form, Pansy had seen only brief glimpses so far.

In the basin of water, she’d seen a picnic blanket next to a tiny, babbling stream. In the crystal, an open cupboard filled with darkness, and a terrifying claw. And in the reflection in Daphne’s eye, a strange triangular symbol enclosing a circle, with a vertical line through the centre.

It wasn’t very helpful, but Pansy had high hopes for the next medium.

“Mirrors,” Professor Trelawney said dreamily, floating out from behind a curtain. Pansy folded her hands in her lap, carefully controlling her excitement. “They are the reflection of your very Soul, my dearest children. The means to see a future that is _uniquely_ yours. It is possible for accomplished Seers like myself to visualise rich, detailed images of the future; even complete stories, playing out before our very eyes. Of course, you are unlikely to have such a success today. For now, I just want you to concentrate on finding the variations in your medium that will enable you to fall into the trance required for a True Reading. It may be a tiny crack, or an uneven surface. Whatever it is, however, you will Know when you See it. Begin!”

There were little hand-mirrors on each table. Pansy picked one up, leaning back in her armchair to study it.

“So,” Daphne said, as Trelawney crossed the room to talk to her pet Gryffindors, Lavender and Parvarti. “I notice Draco and Potter have become quite cosy recently.”

Pansy looked up from her mirror. “Have you?”

“Well, everyone knows about Potter’s crush, of course,” Daphne said. “And that Draco shot him down. But then Theodore saw them together in the Hog’s Head, not long before Draco was attacked. And there’s a rumour that Finch-Fletchley was playing the jealous ex that day.” She smiled at Pansy. “Of course, _we_ know that Draco fucked Finch-Fletchley, but people are saying that it was Potter who had him. Or, perhaps… that Finch-Fletchley had _Potter_.”

Pansy hummed. “And?”

“And Potter rushed to Draco’s side, when Finch-Fletchley attacked him,” Daphne said. “Not to mention Monday’s incident in Transfiguration.”

Pansy tilted her head. “You mean the way Potter set Draco up and got him thrown into detention?”

“Exactly,” Daphne said. “My curiosity was sparked. So I did some scrying on my own time.”

Pansy set her mirror down. Daphne had never seen a single vision of the future, nor could she interpret so much as a cup of tea leaves. But sometime in their fourth year, she’d discovered a remarkable talent for Seeing the present; the truth of things, even that which was hidden. “You Saw them together?”

“As I said, darling,” Daphne told her, shrugging one willowy shoulder. “It was very… cosy.”

“I’m sure it was,” Pansy said, evenly. “I’m also sure I don’t need to tell you to keep what you saw to yourself. Draco’s task must not be interfered with.”

Daphne nodded, lifting her mirror again. “Of course,” she said. “He’ll have no trouble from me. We are all loyal to the cause. But I _am_ interested in this new development, Pansy. Don’t think I won’t be watching. Closely.”

~*~

Seamus sat in the Gryffindor stands with Dean, watching the team practice. “They’re good,” he said. “Good enough to win, I reckon.” Dean just sighed, and Seamus looked at him in surprise. “You’re not still sore about being off the team, are you?”

“Nah,” Dean said. “Katie’s brilliant. She and Harry are the heart of the team.”

“What’s wrong, then?”

Dean shrugged. “I dunno.”

Seamus followed his gaze back out to the pitch. It was getting hard to see, but it was pretty obvious that Dean only had eyes for one red-headed beauty, flying as if hell’s angels were on her tail. “How’s Ginny?” he asked, casually.

Dean shot him an annoyed look. “How do you _always_ know?”

“Part of my irresistible charm,” Seamus grinned. “So? What’s the problem?”

“I told you, I don’t know,” Dean said. “She’s just been – cold, recently. She gets irritated at every little thing, like the other day when I held the portrait door open for her. I _always_ do that. And then she blew up at me, right in front of everyone, and said she could do it herself. Like that’s the _point_.”

“Maybe she’s not used to being treated like a lady,” Seamus suggested. “She’s got six brothers and no sisters, remember. Things were probably always a bit rough-and-tumble at her place, not holding doors open and standing when a lady enters the room, like our da’s insist on.”

“Yeah,” Dean said, miserably. “Thing is, Seam, she’s so popular. She’s got about four boys in her own year who’d snatch her up as soon as I was out of the picture. And that’s just in Gryffindor. House rivalries mean nothing when it comes to Ginny. I’ve even caught _Zabini_ eyeing her up.”

“So she’s got options,” Seamus said, shrugging. “So what? She’s with you, isn’t she? That’s got to mean something.”

“Yeah,” Dean sighed. He watched as Ginny swooped down to the pitch with the rest of the team, signalling the end of practice for the night. They were whooping excitedly; Ginny had scored six goals in the last ten minutes, and Harry caught her up in a jubilant hug as soon as they hit the ground. Dean and Seamus were too far away to catch the expression on Ginny’s face, but she stared after Harry for a long moment when he broke away to thump Ron’s back. “Except,” Dean said, quietly, “I think it just means I’m the substitute for the guy she’s really in love with.”

Seamus frowned. Everyone knew Ginny had carried a torch for Harry since first year, but he’d put that down to hero worship. Once Harry had come out, she’d seemed content to start dating other boys. “Okay,” he said, “so fight for her. Harry’s gay. You’re already way ahead of him in points there.”

Dean snorted. “Speaking of Harry being gay… how’s it going with Pansy?”

Seamus shook his head. “You are the _master_ of subtle segues, mate.” Dean muttered something about spending too much time with certain Slytherins, and Seamus ignored him with the disdain that kind of comment deserved. “It’s going fine,” he said. “Apart from Zabini cruising my girl, too, of course.”

“Well, that’s old news,” Dean said, unthinkingly. Seamus narrowed a glare at him, and he grimaced. “We could do something about it?”

“You mean another Plan?” Seamus considered. “Designed with the sole intention of cutting Zabini out, leaving him out in the cold, and stealing our girls back from him?” He paused, and shot Dean a devilish grin. “I could go for that.”

~*~

With the Gryffindor-Ravenclaw game just two days away, Ron had taken to throwing up in the bathroom again. Harry thought he might have joined him there, under different circumstances, but he found himself much more worried about Malfoy.

The circles were growing deeper under his eyes by the day, and the scars on his face and leg didn’t appear to be healing. He’d even fallen asleep in Charms that morning; just slipped down in his seat and started snoring softly. Fortunately, Professor Flitwick hadn’t even batted an eyelid when Harry crossed the room to take the empty seat next to Draco and copy down two sets of notes from the board.

Draco had expressed his appreciation in a deserted hallway near Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom.

Harry slid down the wall, afterwards, and leaned forward to kiss him, hot and messy. He was shivering a little, and had to clench his fists in Draco’s robes to steady himself. He’d never gotten further than a kiss with Cho, and Justin – well, Harry had suggested it once, but Justin had looked so disgusted with the idea, Harry had never mentioned it again. Now, blowjobs were officially his new favourite thing, and that was saying something, given the number of new experiences he’d been having, lately.

“That was fucking amazing,” he whispered, slipping a hand into Draco’s robes. A hot, hard erection jutted up into his palm, and Draco gasped. “You _liked_ sucking me,” Harry said, smugly.

“So get on with it, Potter.”

Harry tutted disapprovingly, and began stroking very, very gently. “Patience, love.”

Draco moaned and struggled to push into Harry’s grip. Harry just laughed and kissed him, pinning his hips down and keeping up the slow, almost-there strokes. “Just enjoy it,” he said softly.

Draco swore at him, but he relaxed into it reluctantly, and Harry rewarded him with a deeper kiss and a little more friction. When Draco came, long minutes later, he was almost boneless, and Harry wasn’t surprised to see his eyes closed, lashes brushing his flushed cheeks.

Harry let him sleep for half-an-hour, and then sent him off to lunch.

Draco kissed him goodbye, and stumbled a little as he left. Harry watched him go, wondering grimly just how tired a Malfoy had to be to miss a step, to falter like that.

He wanted desperately to do something to help. To pull Draco out of the hole his father had dug for him; steal him away right from under Voldemort’s flat, repulsive nose. But Draco wasn’t ready yet, according to Pansy. Which meant more games, more manipulation. More sex without romance.

Well. Fuck that, Harry thought, suddenly determined. And fuck the consequences. He was going to rescue Draco, whether he liked it or not. And if that meant a bit of romance, then so be it.

He tucked himself back into his trousers, and made his way to the seventh floor. It was the first time he’d even been tempted to explore the Room since he’d burst in on Draco that night, and that would have worried him, under any other circumstances. After all, hadn’t he agreed to Parkinson’s outrageous plan in the first place because it would give him a way inside, to stop Malfoy? But he hadn’t counted on the Room of Hidden Things. Even if he had a hundred years to spare, he doubted he’d be able to figure out what Draco was working on in there – and he didn’t have a hundred years. Instead, he had Draco, and Harry thought, all in all, it was the better course.

He paced back and forth in front of the empty stretch of wall, and the door opened for him almost eagerly. Harry rolled his eyes. Of course, _now_ it opened for him.

He made a left at the troll, and then stopped short. The bed had reverted back to the original pile of moth-eaten blankets.

“Dammit,” he sighed.

Narrowing his eyes in concentration, he flicked his fingers. Nothing. Frowning, he used his wand. But even the words, with the appropriate wand movements, produced nothing but a tiny bed with a thin, scatchy bedspread.

“Dammit,” he said, glaring at it.

 _It’s a matter of matter_ , said Hermione’s voice in his head.

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry muttered, and began to transfigure each part of the bed individually. Apparently the other night had been some kind of freak accident of magic. He’d have to ask Hermione about it. Later.

~*~

Draco left Arithmancy with his mind not on numbers and equations - or at least, not those they were currently studying. He’d spent the entire class wondering if perhaps he was concentrating too much on the physical structure of the Vanishing Cabinet, and not enough on the structure of the magic itself. He’d tried fixing the magic before, of course, but not with a focus on Arithmancy. And really, everything boiled down to numbers and equations.

For example: Potter’s hand, soft and just slightly callused where he held his wand, enough to catch and wear maddeningly + Draco’s cock = Draco slowly losing his mind.

As evidenced by the fact that he was thinking about Potter’s hands again, instead of his task.

“Bloody hell,” he said, just as he turned the corner and almost walked straight into said annoyance. “Bloody _hell_ ,” he sighed again, as Potter’s eyes lit up and he felt his traitorous cock begin to stir. “Don’t you ever give up?” he said, and was surprised at the flash of hurt in Potter’s eyes.

But this new Potter never stayed down for long (then again, when had he ever _not_ rallied to battle?), and he winked, and said seriously, “Not until you’re mine.”

Draco felt himself blush, and he didn’t resist when Potter caught him up in his arms to kiss him. He would never admit it out loud, but he loved the way Potter kissed him. All of the day’s stress, his worry over schoolwork and the Dark Lord’s task and everything else just melted away, and he thought wistfully that he would be content to stay here forever; being kissed and held, safe and protected and –

“ _Oh_!” exclaimed a voice, and a bright flash caught them both unawares.

Draco jerked back, out of Potter’s arms.

Potter yelled in outrage, lunging for the intruder. “COLIN!”

Draco watched in bemusement as Potter grappled with the straw-haired boy, who was emitting little squeaks of fright. “Harry! Harry!” the boy said, breathlessly. “You know I wouldn’t really _do_ anything with it!”

Draco recognised him, then. Creepy Creevy, from Gryffindor, who followed Potter around like a bloodhound, always on the scent of a good picture or the slightest scandal. “Salazar’s purple panties,” he swore, shaking his wand into his hand.

He cast a non-verbal _Expelliarmus_ at the two, taking them both by surprise. Creevy was thrown backwards, his camera flying into Draco’s outstretched palm. Potter just staggered a little, which didn’t really surprise Draco. Typical Chosen One. Which made the ridiculous title, he supposed, somewhat more believable. If the idea that one sixteen-year-old boy with an over-inflated ego could defeat the most powerful Dark Lord of the modern age was at all believable, of course.

“How do I destroy this thing?” he asked, looking down at the Muggle device with (what he hoped was) distaste, and not poorly-disguised curiosity.

Potter shrugged. “A good _Reducto_? _Deprimo_ , maybe?” A smile curled his lips, and Draco had the oddest feeling that Potter was _enjoying_ this. Was it possible he really didn’t like his paparazzi following him around all the time?

“Oh no, no, _please_!” Creevy squawked. He had scrambled up and was dancing in place, looking for all the world as if he needed to go potty. “I’ll get rid of the picture, I swear! Just don’t break my camera, please!” He actually whimpered when Draco tossed it up in the air. “Please! Let me show you! I’ll do it right now, I promise!”

Draco raised an eyebrow at Potter, who shrugged again. Draco scowled, and held out the camera silently.

Creevy rushed forward, babbling his thanks tearfully. He tapped his wand against the digital viewer, and a picture slowly swirled into being in the air above the camera.

Draco stiffened. It was a Muggle still, unlike any he had ever seen outside Pansy’s textbooks; a moment captured in time. Potter had one hand curved around the shape of Draco’s head, the other resting gently in the small of his back. He was bending him backwards just the smallest degree, but enough to make it clear who was controlling the kiss. They were pressed close, Harry’s thigh between his, and Draco had a sudden sense memory of rocking ever-so-slightly against him. His eyes were closed, Harry’s tongue in his mouth. He looked – debauched. Possessed. _Loved_.

“Merlin,” he said, the word ripping free of his lips, against his will.

“I want it,” Potter said, abruptly.

“What?” Creevy looked up, startled, his wand poised over the picture.

“I want it,” Potter said again. He glanced at Draco. “Do you...?”

“Of course not!” Draco told him. “And neither do you!”

“Oh yes, I do,” Potter said, firmly. He fixed Creevy with a steely gaze. “All right, here’s the deal. I’ll let you go with your camera intact, on the condition that you give me two copies of the photograph, and then destroy the original.”

Creevy nodded frantically. “Of course, Harry!”

“The _only_ two copies will be given to Potter, of course,” Draco clarified, and he caught the flash of disappointment in Creevy’s eyes. He raised an eyebrow. “You’d make quite the Slytherin, Creepy.”

Potter looked between them, eyes widening. “Colin,” he said, in an injured tone.

“I would never!” Creevy said. “Harry, I wouldn’t! I promise.”

“Oh, get lost, Creepy,” Draco said, suddenly impatient. “This conversation is boring me. And you don’t want to know what I do to people who _bore_ me. Let alone to those who post pictures of me in public _without my permission_.”

Creevy took one look at his face and squeaked in terror, scuttling away with his camera clutched to his chest. Draco turned back to Potter, shaking his head.

“I love you,” Potter said, with something very much like admiration in his eyes. “That was amazing.”

Draco felt like he’d been hit in the chest with a Stunner. He told himself Potter didn’t mean it, couldn’t _possibly_ mean it. But a warm glow was already spreading through him. “Don’t be ridiculous,” he tried to scoff. “You love the attention.”

Potter sighed. “Of course I do. I don’t know what I’d do without it, actually. Probably throw myself off the Astronomy tower.”

“How melodramatic,” Draco said, archly. “Much like you accused _me_ of being, not so long ago.”

“Well,” Potter agreed, mildly, “after all, one blatant fabrication deserves another.”

Draco bit down on a grin. Potter had always had a rapier-sharp wit, but it was so much better to parry and thrust with him as – well, as equals, perhaps, instead of adversaries. Not that they weren’t still enemies; Draco wouldn’t let himself forget that. Still, he had to admit that this exchange of spear-sharpened words, this battle-dance of Potter’s dangerous, oddly compelling courtship, was more than a little enjoyable. “I don’t suppose you had a reason for accosting me in the middle of the hallway?” he asked, pointedly.

Potter brightened. “Actually, yes. I wanted to ask you on a date.”

Draco blinked at him. “And just exactly what,” he said, icily, “do you think I have been _doing_ with you, all this time?”

Potter looked taken aback. “Not – you know.” He flushed, and Draco stared at him incredulously. How Potter could kiss him in the middle of the hallway, filthy and shameless, and then equivocate over the word ‘sex’ a moment later, was beyond him. “I meant a proper date, like in Hogsmeade, but without the Unforgivables and my date almost bleeding to death.”

“Oh.” Draco hesitated. “That day... I appreciate what you did, you know. Pansy says you saved my life.”

Potter shook his head. “You don’t need to thank me. All I did was move the crowd back so Snape could get through. It was Hermione, really, who you ought to thank.” His lips twitched. “You know, your ‘favourite Mudblood’.”

“I don’t have a favourite Mudblood,” Draco said automatically, and then winced at Potter’s narrow-eyed glare. “I am fully aware of what I owe to Granger,” he said, stiffly.

“You could try being a little nicer to her,” Potter suggested.

“I am not _nice_ ,” Draco said, horrified. “Whatever put such an absurd notion in your head?”

Potter smiled at him, moving forward. Draco instinctively took a step back, and then another, until his back was against the wall and Potter was breathing over his lips. “I don’t know,” he said, softly. “Maybe because you beg – so – _very_ – nicely?”

“I do not beg,” Draco said, outraged. The effect was rather lost under the assault of Harry’s lips. “Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” he said in exasperation, when they broke apart.

“Come upstairs with me,” Potter said, coaxingly.

Draco frowned. “What? Now?”

Potter nodded. “It’ll be worth it, I promise. Please?”

Draco considered the request. He had a Vanishing Cabinet to work on, piles of homework waiting for his attention, and Pansy was right, he hadn’t had a full night’s sleep in longer than he cared to remember. Yet all he really wanted was to succumb to the inexplicable, irresistible pull Potter had over him. He touched a fingertip to those beguiling lips, and Potter smiled, kissing it. His breath stuttered.

“Well,” he said, with a sigh, surrendering to the relentless tide that was Harry Potter. “The Chosen One’s promise. How can I say no to that?”

~*~

Argus Filch backed away from the corner, struggling to contain the cackles of glee bubbling up in his chest. Finally, _finally_ he had something on Potter the slippery worm wouldn’t be able to wriggle out of!

The Headmaster had given specific orders to Argus and the portraits to keep an eye out for Harry Potter. Ostensibly under the pretext of protecting the boy, but Argus knew better. He knew, for instance, that Potter was rumoured to be courting Draco Malfoy. He also knew that the Headmaster was greatly displeased by this, and so too, perplexingly, was Severus Snape. Then again, Snape’s hatred of the Potter boy nearly rivalled Argus’ own, so perhaps it was understandable after all.

Either way, Potter had been warned off. Evidently, though, the boy had chosen to disregard the rules, and continue seeing his Slytherin toy-boy on the sly.

Not that Argus was surprised.

“Marvellous,” he whispered to himself, when he judged he was far enough away not to be overhead. He rubbed his hands together and allowed himself a cackle. Mrs Norris curled around his legs in response, and he stooped to pick her up, giving her a huge, sloppy kiss. “Just _marvellous_!”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone leaving comments and kudos! I am always grateful to hear what people are thinking! xx

**CHAPTER SIX**

**ALL’S FAIR IN LOVE AND WAR**

_Body to body, soul to soul –  
Passions rising up out of control.  
The glow of seduction,  
the stars in the sky...  
Moonlight casting shadows upon two lovers  
as they dance through the night _  
~ Ayanna B. Wilde

Part One

Harry hesitated when they reached the wall that hid the Room of Requirement. He’d worked so hard on this, all afternoon, missing all his classes, and he just knew there would be hell to pay with Snape for skipping double DADA.

But the Room had obligingly made space for what he wanted, in amongst the mountains of hidden treasures. A dozen floating candles cast warm, flickering light over the four-poster bed, leaving the rest of the vast room shrouded in shadow. The bed was huge, much bigger than their dormitory beds, with soft cotton sheets of the purest white, and thick, embroidered satin curtains. There were hundreds of dark red rose petals scattered over the covers, on the floor around the bed, and leading to the door.

It was the most romantic milieu he could think of, and Harry was quite proud of the effect. But now he was here, with Malfoy, he was filled with sudden, paralysing doubt.

 _You’re gay_ , _Harry, not a girl. We don’t_ do _romance_.

What if Justin was right? What if Malfoy hated it? All the progress he’d made – everything he’d worked for, everything he’d achieved – would be ruined. And it would be his own fucking fault for trying too hard.

“Potter?”

He turned to see Draco watching him with those careful grey eyes, his whole body unnaturally still, as if he was waiting for a trap to close in around him. Harry let out a long, silent breath. It hadn’t occurred to him that Draco might be just as nervous as him. But it was too late to change anything now, which meant that whatever Draco’s reaction, he had to make the best of it.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “Can’t be worse than the first one, right?”

Malfoy arched an eyebrow. “That’s a low bar, Potter.”

Harry snorted. “Yeah, no kidding.” He turned to pace the distance up and down the hall. The door to the Room appeared, and he held out a hand. Draco just wrinkled his nose at him, which was sort of ridiculously endearing, and Harry grinned. He waited patiently, and Draco relented after a moment, letting Harry take his hand and lead the way into the Room. Harry shifted to one side immediately, to make sure Draco’s first view of the room was unobstructed.

He’d braced himself for some kind of reaction, good or bad, and he glanced back in confusion when there was none forthcoming. Draco was staring at their joined hands, utterly oblivious to the rest of the room. Harry felt a lump form in his throat. Just one sort-of _I love you_ , and Draco was putty in his hands. He had a terrible feeling that Pansy was right about Malfoy's heart, and the guilt for that twisted in his chest until he could barely breathe.

He jostled Draco’s arm, and the other boy looked up.

There was a sharp little breath. “Salazar’s beard, Potter. Did you ask the Room for this?”

Harry shook his head. “Did it myself. Out of the blankets and other odds and ends.” He drew Draco deeper into the room, silently requesting some music. A low, melodious song started up somewhere in the far reaches of the Room.

Draco looked bemused. “Roslin’s symphony in D minor?”

“All right?” Harry asked. He had no idea about music, except that Mrs Weasley loved Celestina Warbeck, and Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon were adamantly opposed to heavy metal (which, of course, Dudley tended to play very loudly when they were out, and blamed any tapes Petunia discovered on Harry’s ‘rotten influence’).

“Hans Roslin is the Beethoven of the twenty-first century,” Draco told him distractedly, moving towards the bed. Harry followed, not letting go of his hand. Draco didn’t seem to notice, fingering a rose petal with his other hand, his face curiously soft.

“You know Beethoven?” Harry asked.

Draco looked up. “Every wizard worth his wand knows Beethoven. Although, personally, I lean towards the works of Chopin.”

“But they weren’t wizards, were they?” Harry said, his curiosity piqued.

Draco shrugged. “Probably not. Most wizards are notoriously terrible composers; Hans Roslin the notable exception, of course. Fortunately, there are some excellent wizarding orchestras that play the Muggle symphonies, so there’s no need to go to the Muggle world for them.” He paused, frowning. “Do Muggles have orchestras?”

“Beethoven composed for them, didn’t he?” Harry pointed out. He still had hold of Draco’s hand, and he used it to tug the other boy into his arms. “So,” he said, intrigued by this insight into the rigidly pureblood Slytherin, “you like Muggle music. That’s not something I would have guessed.”

“There’s a lot about me you don’t know,” Draco told him, leaning back as if he’d prefer to put some distance between them. Harry just tightened his arms, and Draco settled against him without further protest. “Besides,” he said, “we don’t know for sure they weren _’t_ wizards.”

Harry laughed. “You are so full of it, Malfoy,” he said fondly, and stole a kiss.

Draco melted into it, lips parting, and Harry’s breath caught. Hands almost trembling in his eagerness, in his overwhelming need to have Draco under him, _now_ , he guided the other boy back to the bed, pressing down on his shoulders to make him sit. He lifted one knee to rest on the bed, forced Draco’s chin up, and took his mouth again.

As always, Draco opened to him, sweet and submissive, as if the moment Harry laid his hands on him, that prickly Malfoy exterior just fell away, leaving a soft, pliable Draco underneath. It was a heady rush. Electrifying. He pushed against Draco’s chest, urging him down onto his back. Draco moaned, a long, shuddering sound, and grabbed at Harry’s hips, tugging insistently even as he spread his legs. Harry settled between them, rocking against Draco’s erection, slow and teasing.

Then Draco’s fingers were at his zipper, and Harry shook his head, pulling back. “I want you,” Draco said, eyes dark.

“No,” Harry said, breathlessly. “I mean, yes. Just - not yet. I want to do this right, like we have all the time in the world.”

Draco frowned, but nodded. Harry urged him up into the centre of the bed, and then he stopped, just drinking him in. “You’re so gorgeous like this, all spread out for me,” he murmured. Draco flushed a little, which only made him more beautiful. Lying on pure white sheets scattered with blood-red petals, his white-blond hair a perfect golden halo around his head. Harry imagined him naked as well; pale skin juxtaposed by silky red petals.

Draco had always refused to strip down completely in front of him, and even though he knew why, he was suddenly desperate to _see_.

He slipped his hands under Draco’s robes, pushing them up, touching and stroking and finding the places that made him shiver and cry out. He found the clasps, the buttons that held the intricate pureblood robes together, and began to undo them, clumsy but determined.

Draco stilled. “What are you –?”

Harry put a finger over his lips. “Shh. You’re beautiful.”

“Potter –”

Harry leaned down and kissed him silent; kissed him back into submission. His fingers found the clasps again, beginning at the row down Draco’s right side, removing the front swath, and then the one underneath, and the one after that, almost as if he was stripping away the layers of pureblood conceit.

And then the robes were unfastened, every clasp and button undone, and Draco lay beneath him in just his short under-tunic, something very open and vulnerable in his face. Harry cupped his cheek, stroking a finger over those swollen lips, and then bent and kissed down Draco’s throat. Draco arched his head back, groaning, and Harry continued down his chest, licking and suckling, unlacing the tunic as he moved lower. He shifted back when he reached Draco’s navel, and pushed the layers of robes down, off his arms.

“Don’t,” Draco said, stiffening.

“It’s okay,” Harry reassured him, taking his left hand. Draco tried to pull away, but Harry lifted his arm to his lips, placing a gentle kiss on the Dark Mark. It was a hideous stain on otherwise flawless skin, and Harry hated it. “Does it hurt?” he asked.

Draco’s eyelids fluttered. “No.” He shrugged a little. “I mean, it did, for a long time. And it still does, when he’s angry. Or calling us. But not usually.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said.

“For what?” Draco said, wearily. “It was my choice.”

Harry looked at the Mark again. He’d never really had the opportunity to examine one up close before, and it looked painful; raw and blackened, like a third-degree burn, just under the skin. “Really?”

Draco snorted. “You’re ridiculous. Anyone would think you were responsible for the war itself.”

“Maybe I am,” Harry said. He let Draco take his weight; rough cloth against the soft, vulnerable skin of Draco’s inner thighs and groin. Draco whimpered and tried to squirm away, but Harry held him still, kissing up Draco’s jaw to his ear, sucking in a perfectly-formed earlobe. “Maybe it’s – all – my – fault.” He bit down just a little too hard, and Draco yelped, tugging Harry’s head back sharply.

“Ow,” he complained, rubbing his injured ear. “Bloody hell, Potter! What is _wrong_ with you?”

“Sorry,” Harry said, unapologetically.

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “You will be,” he promised, burrowing his hand into the robes he was now lying on.

Harry grabbed his wrist with one hand and snatched up Draco’s wand with the other, tossing it to one side. He smiled down at Draco’s look of outrage. “Don’t make that face at me,” he said. “How am I supposed to seduce you when you’re pouring ice water over my bits?”

Draco eyed him doubtfully. “Is that what you were trying to do?”

Harry lifted up just slightly, insinuating a hand between them to cup Draco’s cock, which was definitely _not_ uninterested in the proceedings. “I think it’s working,” he said, smugly. “Don’t you?”

Draco arched up into him, huffing in frustration when Harry didn’t move. “Are you going to fuck me or not, Potter?” he demanded.

“Patience,” Harry chided, beginning to mouth his way down Draco’s body, maddeningly slow. “Patience, love...”

~*~

Afterwards, Potter fed Draco strawberries dipped in chocolate, stealing lazy, molten kisses in the warm golden light.

The music playing was Chopin; Draco hadn’t requested it himself, but he thought the Room had done it for him, sometime in between Potter fucking his mouth the first time, and fucking him into the mattress the second time. Probably at the bloody Chosen One’s request, Draco thought, and opened his mouth to take another strawberry from Potter's fingers.

“You know I don’t have time for this,” he said, sinking back into the luxurious white pillows. He felt almost dangerously comfortable. No, definitely dangerous, because he knew very well he shouldn’t be wasting time with this, and yet he had absolutely no desire to make Potter leave. “Is that why you’re doing this?”

Potter smiled at him. “I got you something,” he said, sitting up and leaning over the side of the bed.

Draco stared at him quizzically, resolutely not admiring the curve of Potter’s arse.

“Here,” Potter said, and put something small and delicate on a chain into Draco’s hand. Draco’s gaze dropped to it, and his heart skipped a beat. “It’s a Time-Turner,” Potter explained. “Well, you probably know that. I got it from Professor McGonagall.”

“You –” Draco made a strangled noise. “How? They were all destroyed, that’s what the Prophet said –”

“Professor McGonagall had one out on loan at the time,” Potter said. “She told me about it last year, when I – well, I was pretty fucking miserable, actually, and I guess she thought it might cheer me up. You just have to be careful, okay? You can’t meet yourself, so you can’t work on your task at the same time as your past-self. But you _can_ go back and sleep. You always look so tired, and I know there’s not much I can do, but I wanted to help somehow.”

Draco hooked a leg over Potter’s, flipping them both. “You do realise,” he said, dangling the Time Turner above him, “that giving me more time for my task means I’ll be more likely to succeed? Making _you_ more likely to fail?”

“I won’t fail,” Potter said, softly. His green eyes were steady, earnest, and the idea that Potter knew something that could mean Draco’s failure made him sick to his stomach.

“You’re so sure,” he said. “How are you so sure?”

“Because,” Potter said. He smiled, and Draco’s heart lurched at the tenderness in it. “I have something worth fighting for.”

 _Me?_ Draco almost asked, and then chastised himself inwardly. Of course it wasn’t him. But Potter’s smile was only for him, warm and soft and intimate, and it made him wish, if only for a moment, that this was real. That they weren’t sworn enemies, on opposite sides of the war raging just beyond the wards of Hogwarts. That Draco was the master of his own destiny; that he could allow himself to believe that Potter’s motives were pure, and fall in love with those pretty green eyes and smiling lips. But that was a fantasy of a life he could never have, so he looked away and said, “So do I.”

“I know,” Potter replied gently, and Draco wondered exactly what Potter thought he knew. But his life, his _mother's_ life, depended upon his silence, and it was a timely reminder that no matter how seductive Potter’s promises were, only Draco truly had the power to ensure their safety.

“You really believe the war is your fault?” he said, after a moment.

Potter gave him a self-deprecating smile. “The first one, of course not. This one –” He paused, shrugging. “Maybe. I had a chance to end it in first year, and again in fourth. And – and last year. I wasn’t strong enough.” He sighed. “I know, it sounds stupid.”

Draco raised a brow. “Not nearly as stupid as offering your mortal enemy protection.”

Potter snorted. “You are not my mortal enemy. Even if you weren’t completely, devastatingly gorgeous –” he grinned and flipped them again, pressing Draco down into the mattress, “which you are. But you’re at least a three on my list. Maybe a two.”

Draco blinked. “I come second? Is that what you’re saying?”

“No, fourth,” Potter decided. “Definitely a four on the mortal enemy scale, behind Bellatrix and your father. On the other hand, you’re my absolute, number one, favourite person.”

Draco stared at him for a moment, and then laughed. “All right,” he said, stretching up to kiss those infuriatingly pretty lips. “You’re bloody certifiable, but I’m past caring right now. Chocolate.”

“And _you_ have terrible self-esteem,” Potter retorted. “I don’t think it’s insane to love you.”

Draco wrapped his legs around Potter's hips, pulling him down to settle comfortably against him, skin to skin. “Chocolate,” he demanded again, and Potter grinned and dipped a finger into the bowl of melted chocolate obediently. Draco sucked the digit into his mouth, feeling Potter's cock jerk and start to harden between them. He smiled. “Already?”

“Mm, give me a few minutes,” Potter said absently, watching his finger slide in and out of Draco’s mouth.

Draco smiled in sharp satisfaction, gripping that finger between his teeth. “So,” he said, softly. “Dumbledore’s pet really _is_ in love with the son of one of the Dark Lord’s most feared lieutenants. Rebelling against his dictates, sleeping with a Death Eater. And _enjoying_ it.”

“Oh, shut it, Malfoy,” Potter said, and leaned down to replace his finger with his mouth.

~*~

Hermione sat watching the Gryffindor portrait hole, chewing a nail nervously. Her homework lay in disarray on the table in front of her, Arithmancy and Ancient Runes and Herbology mixed together, quite unlike her usual organised piles. Testament to her worry, she thought, glancing anxiously at the clock. Twelve-thirty. It had been over an hour since Professor McGonagall had given up and left.

“There’s nothing you can do,” Ron said, not unsympathetically.

“If I explained, maybe –”

“That Harry’s seducing Malfoy to win the war?” Ron said. He shrugged. “I don’t know. If Dumbledore asked Harry to stay away from him, there had to be a reason. He’s not going to just let it go.”

Hermione sighed and resumed biting her nails. “I’ve never seen Professor McGonagall so angry,” she said, miserably. “He is in _so_ much trouble.” The portrait door creaked open, and she started to her feet. “Harry?”

He climbed through, robes dishevelled and his hair mussed. He looked… Merlin, he looked thoroughly fucked; lips red and kiss-swollen, his whole body loose and relaxed. Hermione couldn’t help but flush in second-hand embarrassment for him.

“Could you _be_ any more obvious about where you’ve been?” she said, tartly. He looked up, his expression changing instantly, and Hermione caught her breath. For a moment, just a moment, Harry had looked carefree, unreserved and – yes, _happy_. She’d never seen him so open before. Never even realised it was _possible_ for him to be that happy. It was enough to break her heart. “I’m so sorry!” she blurted. “Merlin, I am so sorry, Harry! I didn’t mean to be such a hag.”

He stared at her in surprise. “As if you could,” he said, affectionately. But Hermione could see the careful reservation in his eyes, now. It had always been there, she realised; no doubt another horrible by-product of his abusive upbringing. “What’s wrong?”

She sighed. “I’m so sorry, Harry. It’s just... Mr Filch saw you, and Malfoy, and – and now Professor McGonagall wants you in her office at eight sharp tomorrow morning.”

“Filch saw me with Malfoy?” Harry said, slowly. Hermione nodded. “Ah, fuck.”

“It had to happen eventually, mate,” Ron offered. “And I mean, is it really so bad? You’re going to need Dumbledore in the end, just like he needs you.”

Harry sighed. “I know. I was just hoping for a bit more time.”

“Realistically, there isn’t much time left,” Hermione pointed out. “And we can’t turn the other Slytherins if your relationship with Malfoy is a secret.”

“Rescue,” Harry corrected. Then, seeing her confusion, “Not turn. It’s not about that.”

“Oh,” Hermione sighed, sharing a look with Ron. “Oh, Harry. You don’t know they _want_ to be saved. You don’t even know Malfoy wants to be saved. If he wasn’t under duress –”

“But he is,” Harry interrupted, flatly. “And he’s hurting. It’s –” He cut himself off, shaking his head. Hermione saw Ron opening his mouth to speak, and she waved him quiet. Harry whirled and strode over to the fire, his movements jerky, as if he was holding the reins on his emotions far too tightly. Knowing Harry, he probably was. “It’s been almost _three weeks_ ,” he said, coiled violence in his voice. “Three weeks, and I’m getting _nowhere_. I told him I loved him, and I think he believes me, but he’s still no closer to accepting my offer. What if he falls in love with me? I’m _trying_ , but everything I do – I just can’t seem to get it _right_ –”

“You’re doing the best you can,” Hermione said, gently. “None of this is your fault, Harry.”

“Isn’t it?” Harry said, dryly.

“No. Pansy is the one who orchestrated it, and we convinced you to go along with it. If you’re going to blame anyone, blame us.”

Harry sighed, rubbing his eyes with his knuckles. “It was my decision to do it. If I’m not good enough, or smart enough, to do it without hurting him, then that’s my problem. And his, I guess.”

“Listen, mate,” Ron said, slowly. “I get that this is worrying you. I get why. But I think you’re wrong.”

“Wrong?” Harry echoed, frowning.

Ron spread his hands. “I can’t speak for Parkinson. Maybe she’s too close to the situation, or maybe she’s got ulterior motives we don’t know about. But Malfoy’s a clever bloke. He’s not called the Prince of Slytherin for nothing. You know him. We all do. Do you really think he’ll commit himself until he knows for sure what you want from him?”

“I – you don’t think so?”

“No,” Ron said. “And I’m not saying that just because of our family feud with the Malfoys, or my personal feelings about him. It’s a fact. He might decide to trust you enough to defect and rescue his mother, if we’re lucky, but he’ll never let himself fall in love with you. Not while there’s anything that could come between you.”

“And there’ll always be something between us,” Harry said. “At least, until he decides to defect.”

“Exactly,” Ron agreed. “You’ll have to break it to him easy, so we don’t end up losing the rest of the Slytherins. But he and his folks won’t be able to change their minds. Once they’ve defected, there’s no way You-Know-Who would take them back. Still, I think you’ll find he’s not that surprised, in the end.”

“You think he knows?” Harry asked, looking hopeful now.

“He suspects, at least,” Ron said. “He’ll have examined it from every angle. Probably half of what he suspects won’t be true, but he knows that too. He knows that he _doesn’t_ know, if you see what I mean. So he’s biding his time. You just have to convince him to act.”

Harry’s eyes were bright with relief. “That actually makes a lot of sense. Thanks, Ron.”

“You’re welcome, mate.”

Harry yawned. “Okay, I’m off to bed. It’s been a long day.”

Hermione reminded him about his appointment with McGonagall, and he nodded, taking the stairs two at a time up to the boys’ dormitory. As soon as he was out of sight, she turned to Ron, grabbing his hand and squeezing proudly. “That was incredible, Ronald,” she said, earnestly. “I didn’t realise you had so much insight into the minds of Slytherins.”

He smiled wryly. “Me neither.”

“Oh.” She eyed him apprehensively. “Does that mean it’s not true?”

“No,” Ron said, shrugging. “I think it very likely is true, or at least that Malfoy wants it to be true. But I reckon Parkinson was right. Not even Slytherins can truly control their hearts.”

“Oh,” Hermione said again, misery descending on her again. “Oh, you’re right. This is all so _horrible_ – the war, and people dying, and Justin, and poor Harry –” She cut herself off, making a sudden decision. “At least I know my own heart, and the man I love isn’t on the other side of the war. I don’t want to put it off any longer, Ron.”

His mouth opened, and then shut. And then he shot to his feet and ran up the stairs after Harry.

~*~

The next morning, Harry choked down a breakfast of dry toast and pumpkin juice at half-seven. He was feeling a bit queasy, and he was relieved that there were almost no other students up yet, and no professors seated at the head table. He decided to get it over and done with, and was just crossing a hallway that led to the Slytherin dungeons when he heard his name being called.

“Potter!”

Harry smiled, turning, his nerves instantly forgotten. “Yeah, love?”

Draco scowled at him. “Don’t try that ridiculous charm on me now, Potter. What have you done?”

Harry frowned. “Will you stop calling me Potter? I’ve been inside you. Don’t you think that should entitle me to a first-name basis?”

“I let you call me Draco, don’t I?” Draco said, snappishly. “If you want me to use your first name, perhaps you should think about some reciprocation.”

Harry stared at him blankly. “ _Oh_.” He felt heat flood him at the idea, spreading down into his stomach, tightening his thighs. He stepped forward, loving the way Draco automatically stepped back towards the wall, as if he _wanted_ to be pressed up against something. Hemmed in, trapped. _Safe_. “You want to be inside me, Draco?” he murmured. They were so close now he could lean in just the tiniest amount and brush Draco’s ear with his lips. “You want to ram your hard cock up the Chosen One’s tight arse, fuck me ‘til I’m screaming?” He smiled and dipped his tongue into Draco’s ear.

“P-Potter –”

“Maybe I’ll let you,” Harry murmured, rocking into Draco’s hips. Draco shuddered, knees weakening, his head dropping back against the wall. “Maybe I will,” Harry said, flicking his tongue around the rim of Draco’s ear, “but maybe – maybe I’ll do it my way. Maybe I’ll tie you down, suck you until you’re crying, _begging_ to be allowed to come. And then – and only then – I’ll climb on top of you and let your cock sink into my arse. It’ll be almost too tight for you to bear, and you’ll come instantly, and I’ll just sit there, waiting, until you come back to me, and then – _then_ I’ll start to move.”

Draco whimpered, his hips jerking up against Harry’s involuntarily.

“You'll think you don’t want it,” Harry murmured, sucking a hickey in behind Draco’s left ear. A mark; a claim on that perfect porcelain skin. “At least at first. You’ll be so tender, it’ll be almost painful. But I’ll just keep going, and your cock will be _so_ hard inside me, opening me up, further and deeper than my fingers ever could, better than Justin ever did, hitting my prostate with every thrust – because I’m in control, I’m on top, and you have no choice but to lie there and _take_ it –”

Draco cried out and came, wet warmth soaking the front of his robes. It triggered Harry’s own orgasm, and he shook through it, eyes closed and forehead resting against Draco’s. When the aftershocks finally faded, he found Draco taking his weight, arms around his waist. They were dry and warm. Draco had cleaned them up.

“Merlin, you’re hot,” he sighed, turning his head to lick a stripe up Draco’s neck.

Draco shoved him back with both hands.

Harry staggered backwards. “Oi,” he said, as soon as he was sure he wasn’t going to end up on his arse on the ground. “Bloody hell! What was that for?”

“That!” Draco said indignantly, pointing at his neck.

Harry stared at him uncomprehendingly. “I – licked you?” he said.

“You did it yesterday as well,” Draco said, darkly.

“Okay,” Harry said, confused. “I know you enjoyed it. That’s not what you were yelling about before, surely?”

Draco scowled at him. “Before you pinned me against the wall and talked me into an orgasm?” he said scathingly. “ _Yes_ , Potter, it was. Don’t you notice anything different about me?”

Harry frowned. “No, I –” He cut himself off abruptly. “Oh!” he said, delighted. “Your scar’s gone!” He couldn’t believe he hadn’t noticed it sooner. Draco’s skin was flawless again; not a single blemish marring his face. As if – as if Justin’s attack had never even happened. “When did that heal?” he asked, puzzled. “I didn’t even notice – I mean, yesterday –”

“Yes, Potter?” Draco said, very, very sweetly.

“Harry,” Harry corrected him, reaching out to touch Draco’s forehead. “How is that possible?” he wondered. “I went to Madam Pomfrey yesterday, when I was trying to find you a gift. I was hoping there was something more we could do. But Madam Pomfrey said if the Dittany hadn’t already helped, there would always be a scar. The Cruciatus Curse complicated the healing process, and then you didn’t stay for the full treatment... She said they would fade a bit, the Dittany would see to that, but they’d always be there.”

“And yet,” Draco said, pointedly.

“And yet,” Harry echoed. “Draco, what _happened_?”

“You!” Draco said, accusingly. “It had to be you! You spent forever yesterday kissing me, licking – you must’ve spent at least ten minutes on my scars. At the time, I thought you were apologising – Merlin knows why, but apparently the wizarding world’s Chosen One has a guilt complex the size of his saviour complex. But then I wake up this morning, and _this_! What have you done to me?”

Harry was beginning to feel a little annoyed. “Don’t you think if there was a way, Madam Pomfrey would’ve told you? How do you think _I_ could’ve, if she couldn’t?”

“The same way you ‘transfigured’ that bed, maybe?” Draco said, pointedly. “Do you think I haven’t noticed your power, Potter? Of course, you’ve hidden it for years, so I suppose you may have become complacent. No doubt it’s a little more difficult to hide when your cock is up someone’s arse.”

“Draco,” Harry protested, his face flushing.

“Really, Potter?” Draco sighed. “After all the dirty, _dirty_ things that just came out of your own mouth?”

“It’s Harry,” Harry insisted. “And you’re wrong. It took me hours to transfigure that bed, not like the first – oh.”

“Yes, _oh_ ,” Draco said, scathingly.

“The bed was a freak accident,” Harry said. “I didn’t heal your scars. I wanted to, sure, but I wanted to heal your Dark Mark, too, and that didn’t happen. Did it?” he asked, as an afterthought. Draco glared at him, and Harry shrugged. “I’ll take that as a no. So it wasn’t me. There’s just – no way.”

“The Dark Mark is different,” Draco said. “It’s impossible to heal or remove, just like your curse scar.”

“I’m still not powerful enough to heal your other scars,” Harry argued.

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t play coy with me, Potter. I’ve felt your power. I don’t know how you did it, what magic you used, when even Madam Pomfrey had given up. But you defy explanation. You always have.”

“That’s not true,” Harry said, but he sounded unconvinced even to his own ears.

“You defeated the Dark Lord as an infant,” Draco said. “People look to you to save them from him again. They call you the Saviour. The Chosen One. You know my father used to be one of the Dark Lord’s trusted inner circle. My aunt still is. The prophecy you went into the Department of Mysteries for that night… I know it binds you to him.”

“In a way, yes,” Harry acknowledged. He looked at Draco contemplatively. “Did you know he’s never heard the end of the prophecy? That’s why he tricked me into going there to get it, and sent your father to take it from me. Not because he didn’t want me to hear it, but because he’s terrified of how it ends.”

“I didn’t know that,” Draco admitted. His eyes were sharp. “Is that how you know you’ll succeed? The prophecy foretells your victory?”

“Not exactly,” Harry hedged. “It’s more of a vague ‘how to’ guide. And I told you how I know I’ll succeed. I’ll probably die in the attempt, but he’ll go down with me, Draco, and his cause will die with him.”

“How very Gryffindor-ish of you,” Draco said, dryly. “And here I was beginning to think better of you.”

Harry smirked. “I’ll always be a Gryffindor at heart. But the Hat wanted to put me in Slytherin in first year. I have a healthy dose of that Slytherin instinct for self-preservation – just not enough to leave my friends and the people I love to the mercy of a monster.”

Draco stared at him. “The Hat wanted to put you in Slytherin,” he said, blankly.

“Mm-hm,” Harry said. He’d never even told Ron and Hermione that secret; he’d always been too afraid of their reaction. But this was surprisingly fun. “And again in second year, when I put it on in Dumbledore’s office to ask it why. It said it saw ambition in me, a thirst to prove myself, resourcefulness, a ‘certain disregard for the rules’...”

“That is _not_ a Slytherin trait,” Draco said, affronted.

“No?” Harry said, grinning. Draco scowled. “And then, of course, there’s my ability to speak Parseltongue. I was the perfect candidate. Except I didn’t want to be a Slytherin, and so it chose Gryffindor instead, for my courage.”

“Your death wish, perhaps,” Draco countered.

Harry just looked at him. “I’m not suicidal, Draco,” he said, quietly. “I don’t want to die.”

Draco’s eyes widened slightly, and he made a move as if he might step back. But, “I don’t want to die, either,” he whispered instead, eyes searching Harry’s.

Harry slid his arms around Draco’s waist, pulling him close. “Then let me protect you,” he begged. “Please, Draco. Every second you stay in his service, you’re in danger. Please let me get you out.”

Draco shook his head. “He’ll _kill_ me if I don’t complete my task, Harry. He was very specific. He said he’d feed me to – to one of his werewolves, at the next available full moon.”

Harry went cold. “Greyback,” he whispered, and Draco’s silence was a clear reply. “Draco...”

“Mr Potter!”

Harry’s head jerked up in surprise, but he made a conscious decision not to let go of Draco, even as Draco started and tried to pull away. “Yes, Professor McGonagall?” he said, as evenly as he could.

Her stern gaze softened slightly, and Harry wondered what she saw; two boys clinging desperately to each other in a deserted hallway. “My office, five minutes. Both of you.”

“Yes, professor,” Harry said, and Draco’s voice shook as he echoed him.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone leaving comments and kudos! xx

**CHAPTER SIX**

**ALL’S FAIR IN LOVE AND WAR**

Part Two

Draco stood outside the door to McGonagall’s office, trying to will himself to stop shaking. Potter had explained about Filch, and his appointment with the professor, and he was terrified. He had managed very successfully in recent days to suppress the terror of the Dark Lord’s threat on his life; until, of course, Potter had dragged it out of him with those pretty, soulful eyes and whispered confidences.

He hadn’t committed any infractions lately. Only the DADA essay Potter had given him to hand in, and Draco had no doubt Snape not only knew what Potter had done, but would have also taken every precaution against the cheat being discovered by another professor.

He’d been so _careful_. And now he was in trouble again because fucking _Filch_ had seen them kissing in a hallway?

Potter touched his arm, and Draco startled. “ _What_?” he snapped.

Potter flinched, looking apologetic. “I’m sorry. This is all my fault.”

Draco gave him a scornful look. “Not everything is your fault, Potter. I’m one infraction away from being expelled because I’ve been neglecting my schoolwork all year, because of my task. Not because of you.” He paused, raised an eyebrow. “So really it’s _his_ fault, if you think about it.”

Potter snorted out a surprised laugh, and Draco tried to ignore the warm feeling that spread through him at the sound. Potter put his arm around his shoulders and squeezed, impulsively. “It’ll be okay, Draco. I won’t let them expel you. I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Draco warned.

Potter smiled at him. “You’re welcome to. Anyway, it was me Dumbledore warned off, so I don’t see how they can punish you.”

“Professor Snape was also quite insistent, before I dissuaded him,” Draco said, frowning. “Anyone would think there was a reason they don’t want you courting me.”

“Aside from the fact that you serve the man who wants to kill me above anyone else?” Potter inquired.

Draco smiled despite himself. “Aside from that, yes.”

Potter tugged him around and kissed him quickly. “You’re so lovely,” he said, and kissed him again, as if he couldn’t help himself.

“And you’re going to get us in even more trouble than we already are,” Draco said, jerking his head at the door. “Let go, Potter.”

“Kiss me first,” Potter said, green eyes bright behind his glasses.

And Draco meant to refuse him, he really did, but –

“Well!”

Draco jerked back. McGonagall was standing by the open door, a scandalised expression on her face. Behind her was Dumbledore, seated in an armchair near the desk, and standing next to him with an incredulous scowl on his face… _Snape_.

Draco's breath caught in his throat. “Let go,” he whispered, urgently.

Potter didn’t let go, staring at the three disapproving faces. His own face hardened, and he leaned in to place a deliberate, albeit chaste, kiss on Draco’s lips. Draco had the distinct feeling that Potter was throwing down the gauntlet. A challenge to these people in authority over them: _I will not surrender him to you_.

He let go, then, only to grasp Draco’s hand to walk into the room with him. Side by side.

Draco couldn’t help but appreciate the irony, even as his insides crawled with fear. Potter would be a powerful advocate, and he was very obviously determined to fight for Draco, which was almost intoxicating in its allure. But fear was irrational, and he was very, _very_ afraid that this was the end; that he and his mother would die painful deaths because he’d dared to dance with Harry Potter.

“Clearly you are unrepentant, Mr Potter,” Professor McGonagall said sharply, closing the door behind them.

Potter sighed. “If you mean I’m not sorry I continued to see Draco, you’re right,” he agreed. “I _am_ sorry, though, that it had to be behind your backs – and against your direct request, sir,” he added, looking at Dumbledore. “But I felt I didn’t have any other choice.”

“For heaven’s sake,” McGonagall said, in exasperation. “ _Why_ , Potter?”

“Because I love him,” Potter said, simply.

The surprise of it sent a wild surge of pleasure through Draco. Such a declaration couldn’t be conclusive, of course. But there was an enormous amount of satisfaction in hearing it said aloud in the presence of witnesses. The _looks_ on those oft-sanctimonious faces… that was sweeter than honey and cream cakes for breakfast on Christmas morning.

“I know you don’t understand,” Potter said, stubbornly. “I _knew_ you wouldn’t, sir, and I knew if I told you the truth, you’d never believe I would stay away from him. I _can’t_.”

“Harry,” Dumbledore said heavily, and Draco thought: of course, of _course_ Dumbledore would call his pet Gryffindor by his first name. He didn’t even know why the shameless favouritism surprised him anymore. “I understand that you think you have feelings for this boy. But you are from two different worlds, and you will only end up hurt. I don’t want to see you hurt, my boy, that’s all. And you looked me in the eye and _lied_ to me.”

Potter shrank in on himself. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Draco stared at him in astonishment. He hadn’t expected Potter to back down that quickly. “So, what?” he said, turning to their professors. “You’re going to punish him because you forced him to lie to you in order to keep seeing the person he loves?”

McGonagall frowned. “Mr Malfoy, if I might suggest you wait to speak until you’re spoken to? You were warned about any further offenses. The unfinished assignments, missing classes, fighting with Mr Potter in the middle of my class, and then just before your detention for the same misdemeanour –” She stopped, closing her eyes briefly. “Can I assume, now, that you were _not_ fighting?” she asked, long-sufferingly.

“That wasn’t Draco’s fault,” Potter said. “He didn’t start the fight in Transfiguration. That was me. It was all me, actually; just a pretence, so you’d put us in detention together. I’ve been pursuing him, not the other way around. I was – in the hall, that is, we were – uh –”

“That is _quite_ enough,” McGonagall said, interrupting him. “I am extremely disappointed in you, Mr Potter. You told me that you wanted my Time-Turner for an extracurricular Charms assignment, and then I find you excused yourself from your other classes to spend the day in bed – sick, purportedly, except that Professor Flitwick told me he hasn’t given you any extra assignments, and Argus saw you in the hallway with Mr Malfoy doing heaven knows what –”

“Snogging,” Potter said, helpfully.

Draco’s lips twitched.

“And then,” Professor McGonagall continued, sternly, “you were both out past curfew. Professor Snape and I waited in your respective common rooms until eleven o’clock last night, and there was no sign of either of you.”

“Where is the Time-Turner, Harry?” Dumbledore asked.

Potter flinched, and Draco stood very still as he waited for his reply.

“I – I broke it,” Potter stammered, and Draco allowed himself to relax again. Inwardly, of course; he wasn’t going to ruin Potter’s little game by showing visible relief. “I’m sorry, sir. I wanted it to make a romantic evening for Draco, but I dropped it on the stairs, and it smashed.” He looked at McGonagall wretchedly. “I had my wand out – I tried – but I didn’t catch it in time. I’m so sorry, professor. I have the shards in my room, I’ll give them to you. I know it was the only one left. I should’ve been more careful. And I lied about it, too… I’m so _sorry_.”

McGonagall looked angry, and they were all still somewhat suspicious, Draco thought, but it had been diminished by the genuine contrition in Potter’s voice. He looked near tears, in fact; an impressive feat, considering the Time-Turner was at that very moment tucked safely inside Draco’s robes.

What he intended to do about the non-existent ‘shards’, though, Draco had no idea. Hope they all forgot about it?

“So you have lied to all three of us,” Snape said, forbiddingly. “I warned you there would be consequences for your actions, Potter. You disobeyed the Headmaster, you disobeyed _me_ , lied to and manipulated us all, broke countless school rules, abused the use of a Time-Turner, and now we discover you have _destroyed_ the last one in existence. We have agreed that a month’s worth of Saturday detentions is perhaps too lenient a punishment.”

Draco carefully didn’t let his reaction show. Instead, he turned his eyes up, examining the ceiling with every appearance of boredom. Inside, though, his heart was hammering against his chest.

_You disobeyed me…_

There was just no way to misinterpret that. Not after their conversation in the infirmary. Draco had _overtly_ told Snape that he was using Potter to gain information for the Dark Lord. Even if he had suspected a lie, a loyal Death Eater would never have taken the risk. To speak to Potter again … that was tantamount to a declaration of allegiance. That was tantamount to _treason_.

Dumbledore raised a bushy white eyebrow. “Severus,” he chided.

Snape sighed impatiently. “However. You have apologised, so a month’s worth it is. You will begin tomorrow with Mr Filch, at ten o’clock.”

Potter’s hand went lax in Draco’s, and for a moment he didn’t understand the implications. Then Potter started forward, his expression horror-struck. “But sir, _Quidditch_ –”

The Gryffindor-Ravenclaw match.

Draco hadn’t really been keeping up with Quidditch this year. It was far too painful, watching that idiot Harper play in his place. But he did know that Slytherin was in last place, and Gryffindor would have to lose to Ravenclaw by a margin of more than a hundred points for Slytherin to even move up to third. Not that he cared. If anything, it proved he was by far the better Seeker, even if he’d never beaten Gryffindor’s Golden Boy.

But if Potter was pulled out of the last match of the year –

Snape’s eyes glinted maliciously. “Lenient, remember, Potter. It could be much, much worse.” He turned to Draco. “Mr Malfoy, with me.”

Draco stilled.

“Sir,” Potter said, tightly, “please don’t punish him. I was the one who broke the rules. I kept him out late. Make my punishment worse, if you have to, but don’t punish him. Please.”

“Mr Malfoy is not above Hogwarts’ rules, Harry,” Dumbledore said, and Potter turned pleading eyes on him. “However,” he said, more gently, “I can assure you that he will not be expelled or suspended.”

“Thank you, sir,” Potter said, and squeezed Draco’s hand once more before letting go.

~*~

“Draco,” Snape said, as soon as they were safely behind his wards in an old, disused classroom. “You have to be more careful.”

Draco shrugged. Snape might have just unwittingly revealed his true loyalties, but he was also the most dangerously intelligent wizard Draco knew, bar his own father. It could just as well be another test, and he wasn’t going to show his own hand until he knew for sure, one way or the other.

“He had rose petals and chocolate strawberries, professor. Roslin and Chopin playing. Mood lighting and… gifts. If I’d said no, that might have been the end of it. I couldn’t risk that.”

“He doesn’t have feelings for you, Draco,” Snape said.

“No?” Draco said, thoughtfully. “Well, you may be right, of course. Then again, he did just about _beg_ you to increase his punishment – from missing the _last Quidditch match of the year_ – to save me from any punishment at all. And he took a week’s worth of detentions for me by letting me hand in his DADA essay. And,” he paused reflectively, “he kisses me like he never wants to let me go.”

Snape’s face twisted. “That is entirely too much information, Mr Malfoy,” he said. “Furthermore, I fail to see its relevance. Granted, Potter is hardly a master of ingenuity, but is it really more of a stretch than the idea that he – _loves_ you?”

Draco’s lips trembled in an effort not to smile. “You’d rather credit Potter with ingenuity than even accommodate the idea that he could be in love with me?”

“It’s absurd,” Snape said, eyes a little wild. “Preposterous!”

“I’m inclined to agree with you, sir,” Draco said soothingly, taking pity on him. “But trying to repel his advances was counter-productive. Allowing him to court me seemed the best way to learn his intentions.”

“Court,” Snape said, derisively. “With rose petals and chocolate? That sounds more like a seduction.”

Draco did smile, at that. “Oh no, professor. He seduced me long before last night.”

Snape’s face darkened, and he whirled on his heel, pacing the room with stilted, angry movements. “I suspected as much,” he said, back to Draco. “But it still pains me to realise that Narcissa’s son would whore himself out for – what? Whatever it is, it cannot be worth _this_.”

Draco just raised his chin defiantly, waiting until Snape turned again, impatient for his reply. He met the dark eyes with all the assurance of the scion of the Malfoy line. “I would do anything to save my mother’s life, professor,” he said. “ _Anything_ , you understand? Much worse than whoring myself out to Harry Potter.”

Snape stared at him. “You’ve been threatened,” he said, at last. “The letter. I’m sorry, Draco.”

Draco shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. It only increases my determination to do everything in my power to fulfil the task the Dark Lord has given me, and earn his forgiveness for my family. I just want you to understand that sleeping with the enemy is the least of what I’ll do to ensure that.”

Snape sighed. “I understand.”

“Do you have to punish me, sir?” Draco asked, changing the subject.

“Dumbledore will expect it,” Snape agreed. “You may have a two-hour detention with me, after the Quidditch match tomorrow.”

“During which Harry will be in his detention,” Draco said, frowning slightly. It didn’t seem right, really, that Potter should be forced to miss the match of the year simply because he’d treated Draco to a night of romance.

 _And what a night it was_ , he thought, smiling.

“Draco,” Snape said, his eyebrows shooting up. “Did you just hear yourself? You called him Harry.”

“Did I? Must have been a slip of the tongue,” Draco said, but he was still smiling.

~*~

Harry took a seat opposite Dumbledore, watching as Professor McGonagall quietly left the room, into some kind of chamber beyond. Her private quarters, perhaps.

“Harry,” Dumbledore said. “I must ask. Do you truly have feelings for Draco Malfoy?”

Harry examined his hands, carefully avoiding Dumbledore’s gaze. Hermione was right; he couldn’t protect the Slytherins if he didn’t have the Headmaster’s support. On the other hand, Dumbledore was adamantly against his relationship with Draco, and until Harry knew why, he couldn’t afford to reveal any of the important aspects of The Plan to him. “It’s complicated, sir,” he said, at last. “But if I were to offer Draco and his family protection, would you honour it?”

“You mean if they defected?” Dumbledore peered at him over his half-moon spectacles. “What makes you think he would accept such an offer?”

“Draco’s not stupid,” Harry said. “He might act it sometimes, when it suits him, but underneath that, he’s always calculating. If there was a safe way he could defect, a way that provided him with absolute assurance –”

“And you believe you have found such a way?”

Harry shrugged. “I’m in love with him, sir.”

“I… see,” Dumbledore said, frowning. “Harry, my boy –”

“The thing is,” Harry said, speaking over him. “The thing is, sir,” he said again, apologetically, “you always knew Draco was a Death Eater, and that he was working on something for Voldemort. And that he was responsible for what happened to Katie and Ron. But you brushed me off, every time I tried to voice my suspicions to you. Why? Do you know what his task is? Do you know who he’s trying to kill?”

Dumbledore shook his head. “Harry, you must see I cannot discuss this with you. Not while you are potentially compromised by your feelings for the young man in question.”

Harry felt his ire rise at that. “That’s not why! You wouldn’t tell me anything before, either!”

“And with good reason,” Dumbledore said, firmly. “Young Mr Malfoy is in a precarious situation. I am afraid he cannot be removed from it until the very end.”

“The very end?” Harry said, bewildered. “Of what? The war? Or… do you mean when his task is complete?”

“I am afraid young Mr Malfoy is but a pawn in Voldemort’s design,” Dumbledore said, somewhat evasively. “Still, for reasons I cannot disclose to you, he is a necessary pawn. And not only to Voldemort.”

Harry mouthed the words silently, and they left a sick taste at the back of his throat. “I want him out,” he said.

“And that is admirable,” Dumbledore told him gently. “Indeed, I am very proud of you, my boy. I had not truly thought you could grow up so quickly, and into such a fine, forgiving young man. That love, Harry – that ability to love even your enemies – will stand you in good stead when you face Voldemort.”

“Draco’s not my enemy,” Harry pointed out.

Dumbledore’s eyes flashed. “On the contrary, Harry, young Mr Malfoy is very _much_ your enemy, no matter what pretty words he has whispered to you in bed.” Harry felt himself flush, and Dumbledore sighed. “I was afraid of that. It is why I asked you to stay away from him. You cannot forget who and what he is, or the consequences could be disastrous for the entire wizarding world. Until he makes the indisputable decision to defect, he is a danger to you and everyone you love.”

Harry frowned. “But you just said he can’t defect until he’s completed his task. Isn’t that more dangerous? What if I could get him out now? Or soon, at least,” he amended.

Dumbledore shook his head. “Mr Malfoy has an important role to play, Harry. It is imperative that you allow him to play it, and it is imperative that you not reveal anything to him of our knowledge of the Horcruxes, or Voldemort’s past, or your Cloak –”

“My Cloak?” Harry said, his attention arrested. “Why?”

“It is an important asset to you,” Dumbledore said. “You may find your life depends on it one day. If Voldemort were to become aware of its existence...”

Harry nodded, thinking guiltily of the night before their Hogsmeade weekend, when he’d used it to hide Crabbe’s sleeping form. But then, he’d weighed the potential costs against the benefits, and decided that making Draco interested enough to want to go on that date with him was more important than keeping his Cloak a secret. Besides, Draco had already seen it, that day on the train. All things considered, Harry stood by his decision.

“So you’re saying you wouldn’t honour it if I offered Draco and his parents protection?”

“I am asking you not to,” Dumbledore said. “When the time comes, I will offer him a choice. Until that day, it would be better for everyone if you were to keep your distance from him.”

“I can’t do that, sir,” Harry said, evenly. “Draco is everything to me.”

Dumbledore looked at him for a long moment, and Harry felt uncomfortably as if those blue eyes were stripping him down to his very soul. Then he sighed. “I am going to tell you a story, Harry. Do you remember the name Grindelwald?”

Harry nodded warily. “The Dark Lord before Voldemort. You defeated him, and that’s why Voldemort’s so scared of you.”

Dumbledore smiled. “Partly, yes. But what very few people know is that Gellert Grindelwald and I were once lovers.”

Harry’s mouth dropped open. “What?”

“Indeed,” Dumbledore said, looking amused. “Of course, it was long over between us, by the time we faced each other on the battlefield,” Dumbledore said. “But you see, Gellert and I had dreamed of ruling the world together. We dreamed of bringing peace, and order, and an end to the vicious persecution of wizards by ignorant, narrow-minded Muggles. We dreamed of bringing them all under wizarding rule, herding them together like cattle and establishing dominion over them all.”

Harry stared at him in astonishment. “But – _why_?”

“I was angry,” Dumbledore said simply. “My sister Ariana had been the victim of a brutal attack when she was only six years old, leaving her traumatised and prone to uncontrolled, violent bursts of magic. My father was imprisoned for the torture and murder of the Muggles who hurt her, and my mother was killed by one of Ariana’s bursts of uncontrollable magic when I was seventeen.” He looked very sad. “It wasn’t her fault. But I was left to care for her, and when Gellert moved to the village, I fell in love with a young man who was as angry at the world as I was. I thought he was wonderful, Harry. He had no family to speak of except his great-aunt, so he was free, and wild, and strong in a way I thought I could never be.”

Harry found himself leaning forward. “Your ‘bad boy’, professor?”

“Exactly,” Dumbledore said, smiling slightly. “But it is then that my story becomes still more tragic. Because my brother Aberforth could see the darkness I was descending into, and when Gellert and I proposed moving down to London, where we could begin our plans for Muggle domination, he stood against us. The resulting duel terrified my sister, whose magic surged out of control, worse than ever before. In the chaos, she was killed.” He paused, and then said, “To this day, we do not know whose curse it was that killed her.”

Harry caught his breath. “I’m so sorry, sir.”

“I blamed myself, of course,” Dumbledore said. “And the boy I had given my heart and body and soul to… he turned into a Dark and terrible wizard, as you know. The world will always remember him as an evil tyrant, while I cannot help but remember him as my first love, shadowed though it will always be by pain and guilt. I learned I could not trust my own judgement, Harry, and I learned that my lust for power was my greatest flaw, and what I must at all costs avoid. It was a very sobering realisation to come to at just twenty years of age.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said again. Suddenly he was seeing the Headmaster in a whole different light; as a person, who had been utterly in love, had given his virginity away to the wrong boy, fought and made up and made mistakes, and somewhere along the way, lost his moral compass, and had never quite been able to forgive himself for that. “But, sir,” he said cautiously, “the reason I’m courting Draco… it’s not the same.”

Dumbledore took his glasses off, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I know you believe that, my dear boy. But there are similarities enough to cause me grave concern. You should think long and hard about how you really feel, and whether it is enough to justify risking everything we’ve worked for. Because we are at war, Harry, and it is not just your life at stake. It is the whole world.”

“I understand, sir,” Harry said. “And I – I promise to think about it, and to be careful in the meantime. But I can’t promise to stay away from him. I don’t want to lie to you again.”

“That’s all I ask, Harry,” Dumbledore said, looking relieved. “I know you’ll do the right thing, in the end.”

“Thank you, sir,” Harry said.

He excused himself to go to class, and he’d walked most of the way to Herbology when he realised that his hands were clenched into fists at his side, and he was grinding his teeth. He forced himself to stop; to examine his feelings, like Dumbledore had advised him.

Because he was _angry_. No, not just angry. Furious.

How could standing back and doing nothing be the right thing to do? Especially when it meant endangering the other students and staff, allowing Voldemort to gain a foothold in Hogwarts, and risking someone’s life _?_ Draco had orders to kill someone, and Dumbledore wanted him to do _nothing_ , even when it was perfectly clear that Draco was just a scared teenager in an impossible situation, forced to do a madman’s bidding or die at the teeth of a bloodthirsty werewolf.

A pawn, Dumbledore had called him. Well. Harry wasn’t going to stand back and let Draco be sacrificed, _slaughtered_ , in a game of chess. No fucking way. Dumbledore ought to know better than that.

It just wasn’t in Harry’s nature.

~*~

He broke the news to the team at lunch.

There were rumblings of displeasure that the reason for his Saturday detention was that he’d been courting a Slytherin – and Draco Malfoy, no less – but his teammates were mostly happy with Ginny Weasley’s appointment to Seeker, and Dean was ecstatic about being on the team again. The rest of Gryffindor were, inexplicably, far more interested in his relationship with Malfoy than in the configuration of the team. Considering the big game was less than twenty-four hours away, Harry found that utterly bizarre.

“I don’t get it,” he whispered to Hermione, after he’d finished telling the thousandth person that _yes_ , he really was dating Draco Malfoy, and _no_ , he hadn’t lost his mind, thank you very much.

“Hm?” Hermione looked up distractedly. She was pushing her poached egg salad around on her plate without eating a single bite. Harry grimaced at the messy gloop it had turned into. “Sorry?”

“This!” Harry said, waving a hand around at the Great Hall. There were so many eyes on him it felt like second year all over again. Or, Merlin forbid, fourth year. “I thought everyone saw me in Hogsmeade with Draco.”

“Well, yes,” Hermione said, matter-of-factly. “But that was just one date, and Justin’s attack was far more interesting at the time, especially since nothing else seemed to happen between you two after that. I suppose people just assumed it was a freak event, and dismissed it as such.”

“Speaking of freak events,” Harry frowned, suddenly reminded of his accidental magic, “I wanted to ask you something.” He glanced down at her plate again. “Just – Hermione, are you okay?”

“Hm?” she said again, and followed his gaze. “Oh,” she flushed. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“Did something happen?” He looked around. “Where’s Ron? He’s not throwing up in the bathroom again, is he?”

“How should _I_ know?” Hermione snapped. Then she winced, looking contrite. “Sorry, Harry. I’m not sure. He’s avoiding me.”

“What? Why?”

She ducked her head, and even her ears were red now. “I did something really stupid,” she whispered. “After you went to bed last night, he said something that – and I thought, you know, sometimes he’s just so grown up. I really thought he might be ready. And I tried to tell him how I feel, and he just _ran away_.”

“Oh,” Harry said, and then felt a little guilty that his first reaction was – bloody hell, not right before the game! “Maybe it was just nerves?” he said, hopefully. “He has been throwing up a lot lately.”

Hermione shot him an annoyed look. “It was nerves, all right! I can’t believe he didn’t have the guts to even acknowledge me! He ran away before I could even finish!”

Harry thought for a moment. “I could talk to him,” he offered.

She shook her head. “No, please don’t. This is something Ron and I have to sort out for ourselves. I just wish he wasn’t so stubborn. He’ll probably avoid me for _days_.”

“No!” Harry blurted, in alarm. “Merlin, Hermione, listen, you can’t let it go on that long. You’ve got to resolve this before the Quidditch match tomorrow.”

Hermione’s eyes flashed. “Harry James Potter, I can’t _believe_ you!” She threw down her fork and stormed away, leaving Harry to stare after her in bewilderment, thinking that, all in all, he was very glad he caught the Snitch for the other team, so to speak.

“Girl trouble?” said a voice in his ear.

He turned, already smiling. “Ginny. You okay playing Seeker tomorrow?”

She shrugged, sitting crossways on the bench next to him. “Bit of a surprise,” she admitted. “But I had a good teacher. I’ll do my best.”

“You’re a brilliant Seeker, Gin,” he said, honestly. “I’m just sorry I won’t be there to see you win the game.”

She grinned. “Flatterer. But I hope you’re right.” She snagged a bread roll from Harry’s plate, and nibbled on it. “What’s up with Ron and Hermione? Still dancing hopelessly in circles around each other?”

“Actually,” Harry said, frowning, “I think Hermione might’ve finally admitted how she feels about him. Maybe. But apparently Ron’s all freaked out, which is _just_ what we need right now.”

Ginny winced. “Yeah, that’s rotten timing.”

“And then I go and muck it up even more,” Harry sighed. “Could you talk to Hermione, and I’ll see if I can sort Ron out? We can’t afford to have another man down this game.”

“Right,” she said, throwing him a salute. “I’ll do my best, cap’n.”

~*~

Harry found Ron in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, of all places. “All right, mate?” he said to the pair of scruffy trainers under one of the toilet doors.

“My life is _over_ ,” came the miserable, sniffled reply.

Harry rolled his eyes. Did every one of his friends have to be so bloody melodramatic? Thank Merlin for practical, down-to-earth Ginny, anyway. He settled cross-legged in front of the door. “Worried about the game?” he asked, solicitously.

“No,” Ron said, and then there were sounds of retching into the toilet. “But thanks for reminding me.”

Harry grimaced. “Well, I’ve got some bad news on that front. I’m off the team. I’ve got detention with Filch tomorrow morning.”

“What?” Ron flung the door open and stared down at Harry with wide eyes. They were red-rimmed, and his cheeks were blotchy; he’d been crying, Harry surmised, or trying very hard not to. “You’re kidding, right? Tell me you’re kidding, Harry!”

“Nope,” Harry said, trying to be cheerful. He didn’t regret last night, but the price he was paying was much higher than he’d expected. “I swept Malfoy off his feet, gave him a night to remember… but you were right. Professor McGonagall wasn’t happy at all. Neither was Dumbledore.”

“Bloody _hell_ ,” Ron breathed, collapsing weakly to the floor. “They really gave you detention at the same time as our _match_? McGonagall must have been mad as fire.”

“McGonagall, Snape and Dumbledore,” Harry said. “They were all in agreement. I guess I broke a lot of rules. Skipping class, staying out past curfew, lying about what I wanted the Time Turner for. And Dumbledore was pretty upset that I carried on courting Draco after I said I wouldn’t.”

“What _did_ you want the Time Turner for?” Ron asked, curiously.

Harry shook his head. “You don’t want to know.”

Ron snorted. “Probably not. Damn. Why does everything have to go wrong all at once?”

“Something happen with Hermione?” Harry asked.

Ron gave him a sharp look. “I suppose she told you, then,” he said, glumly.

“Yeah, and I think you acted like an arse,” Harry told him. “Don’t you understand how much she cares about you? Couldn’t you at least have heard her out, instead of running away like a coward?”

“I’m not a coward!” Ron said, hotly. “How would _you_ like it if the love of your life was going on about some other bloke?”

“Some other –” Harry’s eyes narrowed. “ _What_ other bloke?”

“Has to be Victor Krum, doesn’t it?” Ron said, picking at a nail despondently. “Who else?”

“Ron,” Harry sighed. “Merlin’s balls. Listen, what _exactly_ did she say?”

Ron shrugged. “Something about the man she loves not being on the opposite side of the war. And that she didn’t want to wait anymore.” He hiccupped softly. “I wonder if she’s written him yet.”

Harry shook his head. “Since when is Hermione the ‘love of your life’, anyway? You were literally all over Lavender, just a few months back.”

“ _Lavender_ ,” Ron said, dismissively. “She was just a fling. She didn’t mean anything. Not like Hermione.” He sighed. “I think I’ve loved her forever, you know? I just didn’t realise it. The way she stopped Finch-Fletchley… She’s brilliant, isn’t she? And brave. And her _smile_ , Harry. The way her eyes light up, when she looks at me... it makes me so – so _happy_. I guess that should have been my first clue.”

“Blimey, mate,” Harry said. Not that he hadn’t known this was coming, sooner or later, but he really had hoped they’d keep the sickeningly sweet declarations to themselves.

“Oi,” Ron told him, shoving his shoulder. “You’ll be the same, when you find the right bloke.”

Harry made a sceptical noise. “I don’t think so,” he said, thinking about Draco’s smile. It didn’t make his heart race, or his palms sweat. Well. It didn’t make his palms sweat, anyway. That was his kiss, his lips wrapped around Harry’s cock... “How’d you know I haven’t?” he asked.

Ron paled dramatically. “Harry –”

“Joke,” Harry said hastily. “ _Joke_! Breathe, Ron!”

“Merlin’s panties in a twist,” Ron swore, wheezing. “Don’t _do_ that, Harry. It’s not funny!”

“It was, a bit,” Harry grinned. “Anyway,” he continued, before Ron could close the distance between them and throttle him, “I think you ought to talk to Hermione. I don’t think she was talking about Krum.”

Ron looked horrified. “You think she’s in love with someone _else_?”

“I think she was talking about you, you loon,” Harry said.

Ron stared at him, slack-jawed. “What?”

“Talk to her,” Harry advised, getting to his feet. “And, Ron? Don’t fuck it up this time, yeah? I’m not a bloody heterosexual match-maker.”

~*~

It wasn’t until much later that day that Harry finally managed to find a way for his two friends to be alone. He turfed the last three giggling girls out of the Gryffindor common room and up to bed. Ron didn’t seem to notice; staring into the fire and twisting his hands nervously, muttering under his breath.

Harry shook his head, and turned to Hermione. She had been quietly doing her homework at a corner table, but she looked up at him now, a frown creasing her forehead. She didn’t look angry with him, though, just confused, and Harry took that to mean Ginny had come through on her end.

Harry winked at her and tilted his head at Ron meaningfully, and her eyes widened.

He left them to it, after that. There were some things a best friend just shouldn’t see, and this was one of them. At least, he hoped it was. Merlin help them if Ron got it wrong _again_.

But he didn’t hear any shouting before he dropped off to sleep, and the next morning he woke to someone enthusiastically shaking his shoulder.

He opened his eyes to a red-freckled face and a wide grin.

“All right, Harry?”

Harry squinted at him blearily, groping for his glasses. “Wha’ time’sit?”

“Time?” Ron said, blankly. “Oh! Six?” He glanced across the room at Neville’s time-keeper, written in flashing lights over the bed so he wasn’t late in the mornings. Didn’t usually work, but Harry respected the effort. “Uh, five twenty-five?” he said sheepishly.

Harry groaned and abandoned the search for his glasses, falling back to the bed. “You ungrateful bastard. Let me sleep.”

“Can’t,” Ron said cheerfully. “We’re all going down to the pitch to get in some last-minute practice before the game. I just had to let you know you were right, before I left. It _is_ me Hermione loves! Not Krum, not you, not anyone else. Me!”

Harry rolled his eyes and buried his head under the pillows. Not that he wasn’t pleased for them; he was. Or he would be, when it wasn’t _five bloody twenty-five_ in the morning. He’d done everything in his power to facilitate Ron and Hermione’s happiness, and ensure Gryffindor’s success in the match today. It was out of his hands now. He just wanted to sleep, and put off thinking about – everything else.

Everything else being Draco, of course.

It was a mystery to him how Ron could be so wise and insightful when it came to other people’s relationships, and yet so blind in regards to his own. Harry was sure he was right about Draco. He was a Malfoy, and a Slytherin. Of course deception was second nature to him. Their courtship really was a battle, but they weren’t fighting each other. Draco was fighting for survival, and the thought of him being _eaten alive_ by a werewolf made a cold, sick sweat break out all over Harry’s body. And now Dumbledore had outright refused to offer Draco a way out. It made him furious and terrified, in turns. Draco wasn’t the enemy. Maybe he never had been.

“Harry!” Ron said, insistently. “Mate, did you hear me?” Harry grunted reluctantly, realising he’d been on the verge of a restless, unhappy sleep again. “Hermione _loves_ me!”

Harry groaned, groping for another pillow to shove over his head. “Good for you!” he said, voice muffled. “Now _go away_ , unless you want me transfigure you into a toad. I’ve been practicing.”

Ron laughed. “See you after the game!” he said, undaunted, and thumped Harry hard on the back. Harry gasped as the air was knocked out of him, shocking him awake, and he had to scramble out from under his pillows to heave for breath. “Ponce,” Ron said, grinning, and ran.

Harry considered going for his wand, but Ron had already made it to the door. He contented himself with a loud, heartfelt, “Fuck you!” that echoed down the stairs after his (soon to be dead) friend, and closed his eyes again.

Neville and Seamus grumbled and shifted at the noise, but Harry was asleep again before the echoes died away.

He dreamed of two lovers duelling on a dance-floor. But it wasn’t a dance-floor, it was a chessboard, and they stood back-to-back, and fought off two armies together.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone leaving comments and kudos! Each one is very much appreciated. Also, Happy New Year! Let's hope for a better 2021 xx

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

**MAGIC MOMENTS**

_O body swayed to music,_  
_O brightening glance,_  
_How can we know the dancer from the dance?_  
~ William Butler Yeats

Part One

It was two minutes to ten in the morning, and the last few, straggling students were making their way out to the Quidditch pitch. Argus Filch was sorely tempted to shut the main doors so they’d have to go the long way around the side. It had been so amusing to watch them run, the one time he’d dared, their stupid cow eyes wide with panic at the prospect of missing the start of the game. But the Headmaster hadn’t been pleased at all. Just his luck it had been the one time Albus Dumbledore had been running late, too.

Anyway, Argus had bigger fish to fry than a few brainless students, today. Harry Potter. _His_ for a whole two hours.

He rubbed his hands together. When he’d caught the Potter boy having illicit relations with that Malfoy, he’d never imagined _he_ would be the one allowed to punish him. It was just a pity Malfoy wasn’t joining them; Argus had some lovely punishments especially designed to inflict the maximum emotional and physical agony on star-crossed lovers.

Of course, such torture was banned at Hogwarts in this day and age. _Soft_ , was what Argus called it. The look in Potter’s eyes as he watched his lover being strung up and whipped until that pale, pureblood skin was ripped and bleeding... that would have been _delicious_. Just the idea of it sent shivers down Argus’ spine.

“Mr Filch?”

Argus whipped around, fantasy forgotten in the reality of Harry Potter standing in front of him, green eyes bright with dislike. “You’re late, Potter!” Argus said, just because he could. “That’s an extra half an hour on the end of your detention.”

Potter’s eyes flashed, but he didn’t protest, which was a little disappointing. Argus would have liked to provoke the little bug into disrespecting him, which would have been a valid reason to extend the detention further. Or make the punishment even harsher, Argus thought, remembering his whip longingly.

“Sorry I’m late, sir,” said another voice, from behind Filch.

He turned, mouth dropping open in surprise. “Mr Malfoy,” he said, bewildered. “But you don’t have detention with me.” He paused. “Do you?”

“Professor Snape changed his mind, sir,” Malfoy said, his head ducked. “He decided I didn’t deserve to see the game, either.”

Argus grinned slowly. “Well,” he said in smug satisfaction, “the more the merrier, I don’t doubt.” He turned back to Potter, catching him in the act of mouthing something at Malfoy, eyebrows drawn together in a frown. “Potter!” he barked, and the boy froze.

“Yes, Mr Filch?” he said, evenly.

“I think you could learn some respect for your elders from Mr Malfoy here,” Argus told him. “For the rest of this detention, you will call me sir.”

Potter visibly gritted his teeth, but he said obediently, “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now, on your knees.”

Potter stilled. “Excuse me?” he said, and the danger in his tone was enough to send all the wrong kinds of shivers down Argus’ spine.

“Excuse me, _sir_!” he barked, furious at the cheek of him. “On your knees, Potter, or I’ll have you scrubbing toilets every Saturday for the rest of this year and the next!”

Potter bristled, just as Argus had been expecting, and opened his mouth. And then Malfoy was there, gently urging Potter down, until they were kneeling together, side by side on the cold stone-flagged floor. Potter stared straight ahead, but young Malfoy lifted his eyes to meet Filch’s. Argus had a brief, pleasurable vision of those grey eyes filled with tears as Potter screamed impotently from his chains.

Malfoy’s eyes widened slightly, and then shuttered. “Sir?”

Argus had the uncomfortable feeling that Malfoy knew something he shouldn’t. Flustered, he dug into his coat pocket and threw a couple of old, grimy toothbrushes at them.

“Your task is to clean the floor of the entire Great Hall, with just these and a bucket of water, which you will refill by hand. You won’t be using your wands, so you’ll be crawling under the tables to get at the difficult-to-reach bits. And,” he grinned at them toothily, “I will be _watching_ you.”

~*~

“What are you doing here?” Harry whispered, once Filch was settled in the corner of the room, far enough away that they couldn’t be overheard.

Draco looked at him with a small smile. “Never let it be said that a Slytherin doesn’t repay his debts.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Harry protested, but Draco stopped him with a finger over his lips.

“Shh, Potter. Let me work.”

He began to murmur under his breath, just the tip of his wand peeking out from inside his sleeve. He waved it at Filch, first, and the caretaker went cross-eyed and began shaking his head as if he was trying to dislodge something from his ear. “Now watch,” Draco said, and shook his wand properly into his hand. It was immediately apparent why; the movements he made with it were so complicated that Harry felt dizzy just watching him.

And then an image began to form around them – or rather, two images. Copies of themselves, in exactly the same positions they were in. Harry started and scrambled backwards, staring with wide eyes. “What the fuck?”

Draco did one last, complicated twirl with his wand, and the images solidified. They picked up Harry and Draco’s toothbrushes, and promptly began scrubbing away at the floor.

Harry’s mouth dropped open. “ _Brilliant_. What spell is that?”

Draco smiled with his teeth. “It’s Dark magic, Potter. Want me to teach it to you?”

“No,” Harry said, but he watched their copies with fascination. “Why is it Dark magic?”

Draco shrugged. “A better question would be, why does the Ministry classify it Dark?"

Harry glanced at him. “What does that mean?”

“Didn’t you learn anything from that essay Snape had us do? The difference between the Sleeping Curse and the Charm?”

Harry snorted. “I should bloody well hope so. I had to do it twice over.”

“Then you know the Sleeping Curse can be used to keep someone asleep until they waste away and die, but it can also be used to put seriously-injured wizards in a magical coma in order to heal. The Sleeping Charm is far too mild to be used in such life-or-death situations.”

Harry nodded. He'd seen ‘healing comas’ under the uses for the Sleeping Curse, although it hadn't occurred to him that it might be used in an actual hospital.

“The truth is, the classification system the Ministry uses is completely arbitrary,” Draco said. “Just fodder for their campaign of propaganda against Dark wizards. Almost any spell can be used for a variety of different purposes, good or evil.”

Harry looked at him sceptically. “So what are you saying? There’s no Dark magic and Light magic?”

“Of course not,” Draco said. “Simply that Dark and Light are types of magic, not the intent with which the spells are used. The core of magic you’re born with is never neutral. That’s a myth. I was born a Dark wizard, just as you were born a Light wizard.”

It wasn't an argument Harry had heard before, but that didn’t matter. Nothing could excuse Voldemort or his Death Eaters from the atrocities they’d committed. “It’s our choices that define who we are, Draco,” he said. “You can’t be born evil. That’s no justification for murder.”

Draco’s chin jerked up, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he gestured at Filch. “We should go. It’s starting to wear off. He’ll notice us soon.”

Harry nodded and took Draco’s hand, squeezing just a little. Draco blinked at him strangely, but he let Harry keep hold of his hand, all the way out of the castle.

“I don’t want to kill anyone, Potter,” he said eventually, as they walked down the path to the Quidditch pitch.

Harry bumped his shoulder gently. “I know,” he said. “Nor do I. The difference is, you’ve got a choice.”

Draco’s lip curled. “If I don’t do it, he’ll kill me. If _you_ don’t, he’ll kill you. I fail to see any appreciable difference.”

Harry shook his head. “That’s not what I meant. You’ve got a way out, that’s all, if you choose to take it. There’s no one who can help me. Either I kill your master, or it’s not just me who will suffer. The whole world will fall into darkness.”

Draco looked at him. “Are you really the only one who can kill him?”

Harry sighed. It was a persistent rumour, and no doubt the reason Voldemort wanted the prophecy so badly. _Either must die at the hand of the other_ … There wasn’t really any other way to interpret that, was there? “I can’t tell you,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

Draco cocked his head slightly. “Would you, if I was on your side?” _Am I really as important to you as you say I am?_

Harry stopped, and tugged Draco around to face him. They were close enough to the Quidditch pitch to hear the roaring of the crowd as someone scored a goal, but he didn’t care. “I’ve already told you more than I’ve ever told Ron and Hermione,” he said. “Not about the prophecy and the war, and all that. But about me.”

“And do you think that’s healthy, Potter?” Draco inquired. “I am your enemy, after all.”

Harry raised his eyes heavenward. “Merlin give me strength. For the last time –”

Draco stepped forward and kissed him quickly. “I like that you’re so stubborn,” he said, contemplatively. “I shouldn’t. It’s never been a quality I’ve particularly admired before. But somehow, it’s very attractive in the boy trying so hard to court me.”

“Trying?” Harry said, slipping his hands around to cup Draco’s arse, pulling him flush against his body. Draco’s breath stuttered. “Only trying?”

“I didn’t say you haven’t been successful, at least in part,” Draco clarified.

Harry smiled. “Give me time,” he murmured, and kissed him, coaxing Draco’s mouth open. Draco relaxed in his arms, letting Harry take control, as always. Harry thought he probably liked it; being held, being protected. Being Harry’s, if only while they made love.

“We should get down to the pitch,” Draco said, when Harry pulled back. “If you don’t want to miss the whole game, that is. And I did go to an awful amount of trouble to get you out of that detention so you could see it.”

“You did,” Harry agreed. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

“You’re welcome,” Draco said, smiling slightly.

Harry smiled back at him, feeling inexplicably happy. “Come on, then,” he said, digging a hand in his pocket for his Invisibility Cloak. “Don’t want to risk being seen,” he explained, flinging it over their heads and pulling Draco close with an arm around his waist.

“It’s covering us both,” Draco said, in surprise.

Harry looked down at their feet. “It’s magic. It expands to fit whoever’s under it.”

“That is not a normal feature of Invisibility Cloaks,” Draco told him.

Dumbledore’s warning suddenly ringing loudly in his ears, Harry asked carefully, “What do you mean?”

“Potter, I’m from a terribly wealthy, noble family,” Draco said. “I’ve never had an Invisibility Cloak of my own, but I know enough of them to know that yours is unique, in every respect.”

“I don’t understand,” Harry said. “What does that – is that bad?”

“Is it a family heirloom?”

Harry shrugged. “I suppose so.”

“Then it’s interesting,” Draco told him. “Not bad. Haven’t you ever been curious about its origins?”

Harry sighed. “I guess. But there’s no one to ask, is there? I’m an orphan. My parents are dead. My grandparents are dead. The Potters are all gone.”

“You’re not,” Draco said.

Harry snorted, a little. “You’re saying they live on in me?”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “If that’s a Muggle reference, may I remind you that I am _pureblood_?”

“Pureblood doesn’t have to mean ignorant of other cultures,” Harry pointed out. And then, when Draco just glared at him, “You were saying?”

“I was _saying_ you have a legacy, just like me,” Draco said, snappishly. “But most pureblood families rarely have more than one child to pass on that legacy, sometimes to prevent fighting for the firstborn rights, most often because the woman is physically incapable. The Potters have only had one male heir for several generations. You may have very distant relatives somewhere, I suppose.”

They’d reached the pitch, and Harry guided him over to the Gryffindor stands, ducking beneath them. “How do you know so much about the Potters?” he asked, raising his voice to be heard over the crowd above.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Just because you were raised by Muggles, doesn’t mean you have to be _ignorant_ of our culture, Potter.”

Harry grinned at him. “Yeah, yeah. Touché. How? Why?”

“Genealogies,” Draco shrugged. “Purebloods are all interrelated; my history is yours. The Potters were pureblood almost as long as the Malfoys and the Blacks.” He smirked. “Until the last generation, of course.”

“You call my mum a Mudblood and I’ll give you a bloody nose even _Episkey_ can’t heal,” Harry said, menacingly.

“And I suppose you’d know all about bloody noses,” Draco replied. “Did the one I gave you on the train that day heal with just an _Episkey_? I did step _very_ hard.”

“Oh, shut it,” Harry said, amused, and bore him to the ground, casting a non-verbal cushioning charm as they fell. “I want you,” he said, shoving a thigh between Draco’s in an un-subtle demand to spread them.

“How astonishing,” Draco said dryly, but he didn’t look in the least displeased, and he parted his legs obediently.

Up above, Seamus shouted, “ _And Katie Bell snatches the Quaffle out of the air – narrowly missing a Bludger – she shoots – she’ll never – and Ravenclaw misses again! Gryffindor scores! That’s 250 to 90, with Gryffindor in the lead!_ ”

Harry grinned fiercely, and claimed Draco’s mouth in triumph. They were going to win; he could feel it. “You’re _mine_ , Malfoy,” he said, urging him to bend his knees up. He slipped his hands into Draco’s robes, undoing a couple of clasps, folding aside the layers of cloth so that he could get his hands on bare skin. He was getting better at them; learning how to get just enough access with the minimum amount of work. He fingered Draco’s arse, pushing inside just a little, dry.

Draco bore down against him, shuddering. “Salazar’s balls,” he swore.

“I prefer yours,” Harry told him conversationally, cupping said balls. Draco arched, crying out, and Harry kissed him quiet. “You’re mine,” he said, possessively. “And I am going to fuck you so hard you forget your _name_.”

“Promises, promises,” Draco said breathlessly, struggling to get Harry’s finger inside him. “Will you just –”

“Shh,” Harry said, and whispered, ” _Lubrico_.” He pushed in just a little further to make sure it had been effective, nice and slippery, before pulling out. Then he got himself settled, lining himself up, Draco’s legs over his shoulders.

Draco looked alarmed. “Stretching – Potter, the stretching –”

“No,” Harry said. “You’re going to feel every single inch, this time.”

“Potter…” His body was as taut as a bowstring, but Harry shushed him again. He ran his hands down the heaving sides, gentling him, soothing him, kissing him; all-consuming kisses that burned and devoured. And then he pushed, and Draco opened beneath him, tight and hot and slick. So _tight_. Harry broke their kiss, panting, arms trembling with the effort of going slow. He wanted, desperately, to just slam home, like every instinct was telling him to.

Draco’s eyes were closed tightly, his mouth open, red and swollen and wet. “Come on,” he muttered. “Come _on_...”

“Patience,” Harry tried to say, but it came out garbled, so he just braced himself and _pushed_. Draco screamed, his body jerking against Harry’s, and the only thing Harry could think was that he was very, very glad Gryffindor had just scored another goal.

That was his last coherent thought for quite some time.

~*~

“And Katie passes to Dean, who passes to Demelza – nice bit of teamwork there – Inglebee bashes a Bludger at her, _completely_ misses – the Ravenclaw Beaters are letting their team down spectacularly today – and then – oh _no!_ ”

A gasp went up from the crowd. Demelza Robins had swerved to avoid two Ravenclaw Chasers, and the Quaffle slipped through her fingers in what seemed like slow motion. And then suddenly Dean was there, swooping up from below to catch the Quaffle in a breath-taking save. He threw it to Katie, who was almost right next to the Gryffindor goals. She recovered, caught it with only a slight fumble, and scored before the Ravenclaw Keeper had even figured out that the Quaffle was still in play.

The crowd erupted, and Professor McGonagall nudged Seamus sharply. “Oh,” he said, stunned. “Oh, WOW! Way to go, Dean!”

“ _Mr_ Finnigan...”

“Sorry, sorry!” he said quickly. “The Quaffle is back in play, everyone, after an _incredible_ save by our one and only Dean Thomas! An unexpected line-up this game for Gryffindor, but one that’s working like a charm! 300 to 130 now, with Gryffindor most definitely in the lead!”

Ravenclaw managed to score another goal, but then Ginny spotted the Snitch, and Seamus was up on his feet like everyone else, roaring encouragement.

She and Cho were neck-to-neck, racing down the length of the pitch, and for a moment it looked like Cho was going to get it – Seamus felt his heart almost stop as her fingers brushed it – but then it darted up, and Cho went speeding forward, overshooting it. Ginny threw herself up. Her hand closed around the little golden ball.

“And Gryffindor has the Snitch!” Seamus screamed. “ _Gryffindor wins 450 to 140_!”

The crowd went wild. The Gryffindor team flew at Ginny and caught her up in an exuberant clash of brooms and perilous mid-air hugs. Seamus danced around in a little circle, and then threw his arms around Professor McGonagall.

“We won! We won! _Gryffindor won_!”

She disentangled herself, lips pressed together in a disapproving line. “Please restrain yourself, Mr Finnigan,” she said severely, but her eyes were just as delighted as any other Gryffindor in the stands.

He whirled back to the pitch, searching the opposite stands instinctively for a figure with short dark hair and a green-and-silver rosette. With Gryffindor in first place, Slytherin had placed last, but he knew Pansy Parkinson would be wearing her House colours regardless.

And sure enough, there she was, in the Slytherin stands, surrounded by a sea of blue and bronze; most of Slytherin had been supporting Ravenclaw against Gryffindor. There was no sign of Malfoy, but Blaise Zabini was sitting at Pansy’s side, and Seamus gritted his teeth, victory turning to ashes in his mouth as he watched Zabini covering Pansy’s shoulders with his cloak to ward off the chill. She smiled at him, and accepted his arm to descend the steps.

Down below, the Gryffindor team landed. Ginny flung herself into Dean’s arms, whooping.

Seamus watched them, trying not to feel horribly jealous. So much for their impending break-up. That had probably been Dean’s insecurities talking, after all. Unlike his own situation. Blaise Zabini wasn’t even a _blip_ on Ginny’s radar, while Pansy seemed to be falling further and further into his grasping hands every day. Even if Seamus had Pansy’s brilliant, scheming mind to form a plan to steal her away from Zabini, it probably wouldn’t work.

He sighed and jumped over the railing onto the wooden staircase leading down to the pitch. Professor McGonagall made a small noise of censure, and Seamus looked back to grin cheekily at her.

Then he was down the steps, slapping Dean’s back and pumping Katie’s hand enthusiastically, and trying very hard to pretend that it wasn’t his heart on the line; that his future happiness didn’t depend on an evil, paranoid bastard of a Slytherin falling for Harry Potter’s sweet, clumsy lies.

~*~

Draco stretched out on Potter’s Invisibility Cloak, listening to the crowd cheer above them. “I think Gryffindor won,” he said, lazily.

Harry buried his nose against Draco’s sweat-slick skin. “Hm?” he said, letting his fingers drift down between Draco’s cheeks. Draco grunted as he slid two fingers in, gently probing. He was sore, and stretched, and Potter’s fingers felt _marvellous_. “All right?”

“You fucked me without even the courtesy of stretching me first,” Draco said. Potter lifted up, looking concerned. Although clearly not that concerned, because he didn’t remove his fingers. “You’re incorrigible,” Draco said, shaking his head. “And – a bloody _god_ in bed.”

Potter grinned, eyes lighting up. “Yeah?”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Draco warned. He wrapped himself around the other boy, enjoying the way Potter’s still mostly clothed body rubbed up against his naked skin. Especially with Potter’s fingers, stroking and twisting inside him, catching occasionally on his prostate. He was far too sated to be physically aroused, and a little oversensitive, but somehow the sparks of pain made it even more pleasurable.

“You’re gorgeous,” Harry said, softly.

“I know,” Draco said, smiling, his eyes drifting shut. “But I’m going to have to ask you to take your fingers out of my arse. I have detention soon. And mine, unlike yours, is with Professor Snape. There’s no getting out of that.”

Potter grumbled something under his breath. “I suppose you’re right,” he acknowledged. “I should go congratulate my team, anyway. It’ll look odd if I’m not there.”

“Mm,” Draco said, wriggling a little as Potter continued to stroke over his prostate, again and again. Gentle, but relentless. “Potter. _Potter_.”

Harry kissed him, his free hand closing around Draco’s over-sensitive cock. “I want you to come again.”

“Not going to happen,” Draco told him frankly, even as he began to harden under the deliberate, merciless manipulations. “Not after three orgasms already, and not – not in the – the t-time we’ve got. Oh, for Salazar’s sake, _Potter_...”

Harry smiled against Draco’s neck, sucking on the skin just above his collarbone. “Come for me,” he whispered, just as his fingers brushed Draco’s prostate again. Draco jerked and shrieked at the light touch, scrambling to push himself away. It was like an electric shock, like lightning, running through his entire body, spiking his arousal to unbearable heights; up, and up, and up –

“Harry! Harry _, p-please_!”

He wasn’t quite sure what he was pleading for, but Harry held him still, and his fingers never stopped moving, until Draco convulsed helplessly, tears in his eyes, his cock jerking in Harry’s hand. His release spread between them, soaking Harry’s trousers, but Draco was too dazed to care. He just clung to the other boy, his whole body vibrating with the force of his orgasm, as if Potter had reached inside him and played a concerto with his nerve endings. He felt raw, and exposed, and very, very vulnerable, and that was not something Draco Lucius Malfoy was accustomed to feeling.

“What did you _do_ to me?” he whispered.

“I don’t know,” Harry said. He sounded afraid; not at all the confident, dominant young man of mere moments ago. “I think it was my magic. I didn’t mean to, it – it just sort of happened. Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

“I’m fine,” Draco said. “I just – need you to s-stay, for a bit.” _And hold me,_ he didn’t say.

Harry drew him impossibly closer. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said. “I promise.”

~*~

Twenty minutes later, the Quidditch pitch was empty, and the students were all back up at Hogwarts, either celebrating their victory, or commiserating with the losers.

Harry urged Draco to his feet. “Detention, remember, sweetheart?” he said. And then he paused, wondering what had possessed him to use that particular endearment. He called Draco ‘love’ occasionally, but that was different. Deliberate. This had not been deliberate. It was just… they’d shared something so – so incredibly _powerful_ , he felt oddly, intensely protective, and not just because it had been his magic that had gotten so out of hand.

Draco didn’t protest, or tell him not to be so condescending. He’d been – clingy, was the only way Harry could describe it, ever since that last orgasm. As if the process of coming so undone had left him utterly incapable of raising that mask of pureblood snobbery that usually kept him safe. “What time is it?” he asked.

“Nearly two o’clock,” Harry said, sliding an arm around Draco’s waist to keep him close.

They made their way back up to the castle in easy silence, broken only by a sudden scream of laughter when they were nearing the front doors. Harry looked up, snorting when he saw it was coming from Gryffindor tower, high above them.

“You lot,” Draco said, but without the usual bite to his tone, “are completely insufferable.”

“We won the Cup, which means we’ll probably win the House, too,” Harry said. “Don’t try and pretend you wouldn’t be much worse if it was Slytherin. You know you would.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, looking pointedly up at Gryffindor tower, where two figures were dangling a third out the window, all three shrieking with laughter. Harry thought they were probably already drunk. He just hoped Professor McGonagall didn’t stop by. Technically, he was still team captain, and he really didn’t need another detention right now. Technically, he was still supposed to be in one.

“Do we have to go back to the Great Hall?”

Draco shook his head. “The ‘gangers have a limited amount of interactivity, but more than enough to fool Filch and conclude the detention on their own.”

“Gangers? As in... doppelgängers?”

“To some extent, yes,” Draco said, leaning into him a little more. “I did say the Ministry classifies that spell as Dark magic. In actual fact, in this case, they were right.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. “Yeah?”

“It’s the magic of life and death,” Draco explained. “Dark magic. The ‘gangers are just copies of us. They don’t have a true consciousness of their own, but they come from us, like another arm or leg. They have our memories, even. They fit in that very shady area between life and not-life. Less than vampires, but more than, say, actual ghosts, which are, in the end, just an echo of their previous selves.”

“So what does that mean?” Harry asked, with an uncomfortable feeling that he wasn’t going to like the answer.

Draco shrugged. “It means that there was some controversy over whether the ‘gangers could be classified as alive. And because they only last a few minutes – several hours at the most – there were ethical concerns.”

Harry frowned. “Because we brought those things, which might or might not be actually _alive,_ into the world, and then just let them die?”

“They have no free will, Potter,” Draco told him. “They exist to serve a purpose only. There’s never been a case of a ‘ganger becoming self-aware enough to plead for its life. They just – live, and then fade.”

Harry grimaced. “Creepy.”

“Exactly,” Draco agreed. “The bigwigs at the Ministry justify it with their petty equivocations, but the unpalatable truth is that they don’t even formally recognise vampires as living beings. It had nothing to do with ethics, or the actual categories of Light and Dark. They were simply concerned about the potential of the spell in the ‘wrong hands’, so they labelled it Dark to scare people off.”

“Oh.” Harry considered the possibilities of such a spell. “But why show it to me?”

“Why did you show me your Invisibility Cloak?” Draco countered.

They’d just passed through the doors to the castle, and Harry paused. “Because,” he said. “I trust you. I trust you won’t use it against me, and if you do, it’ll be because you had no other choice.”

Draco studied him, frowning. “That’s a lot of faith to put in a Death Eater, Potter.”

“I love you,” Harry said, shrugging. “A Mark on your skin doesn’t make you who you are.”

Draco lifted a hand to touch Harry’s scar. It sent a pleasant shiver down Harry’s spine. “Yours made you a hero to millions.”

“But it’s not me,” Harry said.

Draco looked sceptical. “Every child in the wizarding world knows your scar. Not just in Britain, but all over the world. The symbol of the boy who survived the Dark Lord’s Killing Curse. You and that scar are synonymous.”

“Yes,” Harry acknowledged. “But it’s not _me_. Harry Potter is… an orphan with a lonely childhood. A half-blood wizard with a Muggle upbringing. A Gryffindor who could have done just as well in Slytherin. A friend to a half-giant and a house-elf, and lover to my childhood nemesis. My favourite food is treacle tarts, I love playing Quidditch, and sitting under the great beech tree by the lake in summer, with the sun in my face and the wind in my hair. My scar is just another part of me; something that was _forced_ on me. It changed me, yes, but I’m more than the sum of my parts. I'm more than the Boy Who Lived.”

Draco smirked slightly. “You really do have a flair for the dramatic, Potter.”

Harry let his eyebrows rise. “And you never said. Why would you tell me about that spell?”

“To get you out of detention,” Draco replied. “It wasn’t altruism, or renouncing my vows, if that’s what you think. It was just the easiest way to repay my debt.”

“Well,” Harry said, “I appreciate it anyway. Watch your back, yeah? I didn’t like the way Filch was looking at you this afternoon.”

“How very possessive of you, Potter,” Draco drawled. “I almost like it.”

“I know you do,” Harry said, smiling, and kissed him goodbye.

~*~

The ecstatic high Hermione had been floating on since Ron’s confession burst like an over-inflated balloon that afternoon.

Someone had spiked the punch; Hermione's galleons were on Seamus, who was already upside-down in the large armchair near the fire, snoring. She enlisted Harry’s aid in getting the first and second years (who were beginning to look a little glazed around the eyes) upstairs, away from the celebration – the boys by bribing them with a variety of Animal Noise sweets from the stash Seamus kept under his bed, and the girls by promising them the spells to achieve the perfect nails.

When even the most reluctant little girl was settled and thoroughly engaged in Parvarti’s spell-casting, Hermione ventured downstairs again.

Ron caught her around the waist as she came around the corner, a glass of punch in his hand, his face flushed and stretched wide in an enormous grin. “Hermione! I missed you!”

“Are you drunk?” Hermione asked, suspiciously.

“Might be getting there, yeah,” Ron said, raising his glass in a salute. “GRYFFINDOR RULES!”

The whole common room erupted in cheers.

Hermione tutted. “You’re a _prefect_ , Ronald,” she said. “You’re supposed to be a role model. They look up to you. It’s even more important to be responsible at times like this.” Speaking of which, she really ought to find a spell to reduce the alcoholic content of the punch –

Ron sighed impatiently. “Gryffindor won, Hermione. Lighten up and have some fun for once, will you? You’re such a killjoy!”

Hermione stiffened. “I’m sorry?”

“You –” He stopped, sensing danger. “I just meant – Hermione –”

“I can’t _believe_ you,” Hermione said, pulling away. Hot tears filled her eyes, and when he reached out to her, she hit his hand away. “Don’t.”

“Hermione – look, it’s not a big deal –”

“Not a big deal?” Hermione said, her voice rising. People were beginning to turn and stare, and Ron’s expression was rapidly changing from guilty to angry and defensive. “You know what, fine,” she said, because doing this with dozens of nosy, intoxicated Gryffindors watching was not her idea of a good time. “ _Fine_.”

She whirled on her heel and rushed out of the room.

Ron didn’t even call out after her, and suddenly she was crying, really crying; tears streaming down her face, choked sobs rising up from somewhere deep inside. It was ridiculous, really. Ron had called her far worse, in the past. But it felt different now.

“Stop it,” she whispered, grinding her hands into her eyes. “Pull yourself together, Granger. It’s hardly the end of the world.”

But it _felt_ like it was.

She curled up in a corner of a nearby alcove, and let herself cry.

“Oh, Hermione.” An arm slid around her shoulders, warm and familiar. Not the one she’d been hoping for, but one that would do in a pinch. She smiled, wiping at her eyes.

“Harry.”

“Ron’s an arse,” he said, nudging her gently. “You knew that already.”

“Yes,” Hermione sighed, resting her head on his shoulder gratefully. No matter how it ended with Ron, she knew they would always be her boys. She couldn’t imagine it any other way. Stubborn, irascible, irresponsible, wilfully ignorant at times, not to mention deliberately obtuse – but also loyal, and caring, and strong. And brave. Oh, so brave. It hurt, to think where that bravery would lead them; what the future might hold for all those who chose to make a stand, and fight.

Especially Harry. The war was a dark stain over all of their lives; their futures, their hopes and dreams. Sometimes Hermione wondered if Harry had any hopes or dreams, or if, in his mind, his future ended with his inevitable final confrontation with Voldemort.

“He wasn’t the only one in the wrong,” she said. “I had no right to scold him like that.” She drew in a shaky breath, more tears springing unbidden to her eyes. “We just fight so much, Harry. It’s how we’ve always been, and I love him. I love _us_. I just – I thought it would be different when we… and it’s _not_.”

“You have to give it time,” Harry said. “You can’t expect to be brilliant at everything right away.” His tone was teasing, and she smiled.

“You’re right,” she agreed, but the smile slipped away as quickly as it had come. “I certainly didn’t expect it to be easy. But I can’t help thinking that we’ll self-destruct before we have a chance to get it right.”

“Oh, Hermione.” Harry sighed, hugging her closer. “Don’t you know you’re the glue that holds us together? Without you, our friendship would never have lasted. Not to mention we’d be dead, what – four times over by now?”

“Five, at least,” Hermione said. Not that she was counting. Even the thought of the way she could have lost them all those years ago in the Devil’s Snare still had the power to make her throat close up.

Harry smiled. “You’re amazing. There’s no one I’d rather have by my side, in life and in battle.”

“And Ron, of course.”

“And Ron,” Harry agreed, “arse though he might be.”

Hermione snorted. “He’s not so bad. I might have overreacted. I suppose it was the shock of hearing him say something like that, when his arm was around my waist and I was thinking about the way he kissed me last night –”

“Hey, hey!” Harry interrupted. He looked wounded. “Do I give you the details of _my_ sex life?”

Hermione gave him a pointed look. “Lately it’s all about your sex life. Not that,” she added thoughtfully, “I wouldn’t mind hearing a few details about the actual _sex_.”

“Okay, ew,” Harry said, disapprovingly.

“Oh, I don't know,” Hermione said, smiling. “Now I’ve had some time to get used to the idea, I think you and Malfoy together could be hot. Very hot.”

“Bloody hell,” Harry sighed. “Too much information, Hermione.”

“But it is hot, right?” she asked, watching him closely.

“Very,” he said, with only a trace of a smile. “Listen, I need to ask you about something. It’s important.” He looked so serious, all of a sudden. Hermione’s heart sank, and she gestured for him to go on. “I think there’s something really wrong with my magic.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone leaving comments and kudos xx

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

**MAGIC MOMENTS**

Part Two

Draco stirred his potion three times in a clockwise direction, twice counter-clockwise, and then tapped his stirring stick gently against the side of the cauldron. The potion – a supplement to the spells for healing broken or shattered bones, necessary for the re-attachment of tendons to the bones – turned a perfect, even green, a few shades lighter than Potter’s eyes.

Draco paused for a moment, staring down at the potion. When had he begun to associate that distinctive colour with Potter’s eyes, and not the Killing Curse?

“Finished, professor,” he said.

Snape glanced into the cauldron, and his thin lips curved into a genuine smile. “Excellent work, Draco. Go and get some dinner. I’ll finish up here.”

Draco nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

He walked to the door, and looked back over his shoulder. Snape was bottling the potion carefully, his attention to detail evident in every movement.

He was a true Slytherin; he didn’t do anything without a reason. There were dozens of potions he could have chosen for Draco’s detention, but he’d chosen a Ministry-classified Light potion. It was a statement; a hint, perhaps, that Draco had a friend on the other side, if he chose to accept Potter’s offer. Snape played a deep game, but Draco thought he was getting closer to declaring himself openly, one way or another.

And he was almost certain, now, which way Snape’s loyalties would fall.

He slipped through the door, closing it gently behind him. The quiet click sounded like a death knell.

“Draco.”

He turned to see Potter standing at the end of the hall. Draco looked at him, cursing the inevitability of it all. He could still feel Potter’s fingers inside him, brushing his prostate, that terrible, breath-stealing shock of electricity running through his body. He had spent his detention re-making himself from the inside out, building his walls, fortifying them again... but Potter was still inside him. He was slowly, inexorably, worming his way into Draco’s life, into his body. Into his soul.

It was no longer even a surprise to hear his given name on Potter’s lips. No longer a surprise to find himself thinking Potter’s given name.

Harry. _No_.

“I’ve wasted the whole day in detention, or with you,” he said. “I don’t have time to let you fuck me again today.”

Potter’s eyebrows twitched together. “All right,” he said, peaceably. “You have time for dinner, though. That’s why I got you the Time-Turner.”

“I’ve been using it.”

Potter smiled. “I’m glad,” he said, and he at least sounded sincere. Which was the problem, Draco thought. He was just _too_ bloody sincere, about everything, all the time. When they fought (eyes the colour of the Killing Curse, flashing terrible and beautiful), when they fucked (heat and slick sweat and hard bodies, inextricably intertwined), when they danced. Especially when they danced.

But he’d seen incontrovertible, devastating evidence, now, that Potter could lie, and lie well. If he could fool even McGonagall and Dumbledore, it forced Draco to re-examine _everything_.

“I may not have been able to get you out of detention, but I brought you this,” Potter said, holding out his hand.

Draco blinked down at the photo, taken by surprise.

“Colin gave it to me,” Potter said. “And don’t worry, I made sure the original was destroyed, and that he didn’t make any other copies. I think you scared the bollocks off him, anyway.”

“I told you I didn’t want it.”

Potter shrugged, a little. “I know. You don’t have to keep it, if you don’t want.” He stepped forward, slipping his arms around Draco’s waist. “I’m sorry about earlier,” he said, quietly. “You were right about my magic. Hermione’s promised to look into it for me. She thinks it’s significant that it only happens – with you.” He coloured. “In bed, I mean.”

Draco would have smirked; he didn’t think he would ever understand how Potter could be so embarrassed talking about sex, when he was so completely unselfconscious in the act itself. But he was too close, breathing gently across Draco’s lips, his eyes searching Draco’s for Merlin knew what. Forgiveness? “I don’t think it’s significant,” he said, as steadily as he could. “Not if her theory is that it’s your arousal causing this. We were arguing when you created that illusion of the bed, remember? You were angry, not aroused.”

“Er,” Potter said, sheepishly. “I was kind of both, actually. You had your leg – um, rubbing up against me, at the time.” He paused. “What do you mean, illusion?”

Draco frowned. “It wasn’t a transfiguration. It had almost faded by the time I got back to the Room.”

“But an illusion would have been even more difficult,” Potter said, and his bewilderment certainly seemed real. Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Wouldn’t it make more sense that – that the Room changed it back, or something?”

“Not really,” Draco said. “The Room doesn’t work like that. You’re telling me nothing like this ever happened when you were with Finch-Fletchley?”

Potter visibly flinched. “No,” he said, shortly.

“So,” Draco said, raising an eyebrow, “what you’re saying is that _I’m_ the reason your magic is out of control?”

“I’ve never been this close to someone before,” Potter said, apologetically, and Draco thought that that was probably true.

“More fool him, then,” he murmured.

“What?”

“Finch-Fletchley,” Draco said, and Potter’s eyes flickered. Surprised, Draco said, “You don’t believe it, do you? You really don’t believe that Finch-Fletchley was a fool for letting you go.”

He felt it; the way Potter’s breath stuttered in his chest, the way his whole body stilled. Those impossible green eyes, so close to Draco’s, widened. “What?” he said again, almost inaudibly.

Draco leaned in, just barely brushing Potter’s mouth with his. “If _I_ deserve to be loved, Potter… so do you.”

Potter stumbled backwards, shock written across his face.

Draco felt an intense surge of satisfaction. So. Potter was courting him with absolutely no expectation that Draco might come to feel the same way. Interesting. It either provided him with an insight to the Chosen One he thought very few people had, or it meant Potter was dancing with him in a game truly worthy of a Slytherin. Draco wasn’t sure which one he was hoping for, but either way, he was self-aware enough to know that he had to see this through to the end. He had no choice, now.

“I have to go,” Potter muttered.

Draco watched him disappear around the corner, and despite the burdens weighing on his shoulders, ever-present and growing heavier with each passing day, he smiled.

~*~

Dinner that night was an exercise in tedium. The Ravenclaws were sulking, and the triumphant Gryffindors – those who had actually turned up, anyway – were irritatingly jubilant. Draco sat with his back to them, even though it meant he wouldn’t see Potter, because if he had to watch those insufferably smug faces beaming out at the world, he’d do something drastic.

He focused on his Arithmancy instead. The size and structure of the Vanishing Cabinet, the composition of the wood, the magic infused in every board, every nail – even the _oil_ finish had to be taken into account.

He was completely engrossed in a particularly complex equation when Dumbledore’s voice boomed out across the Great Hall. He had to control his instinctive reaction to flinch.

“I do apologise for interrupting your dinner,” the Headmaster said. “But I have an announcement to make. I wanted you to know before the newspapers come tomorrow.” The students began to murmur, and even Vince and Greg glanced up from their meals with a glimmer of interest. “I’m sure you all remember the unfortunate incident that transpired in Hogsmeade two weeks ago?”

Draco felt his lips curl into a sneer. _Unfortunate incident_ , indeed.

Students from the other houses began to shoot dirty looks at Draco, and, almost as one, Slytherin closed ranks around him. Draco frowned; he hadn’t realised the general feeling towards him in the other houses was so hostile. It hadn’t been, at first, when he was still injured, but the mood in Hogwarts had been growing uglier by the day. A reflection of the outside world, he supposed.

It was somewhat sobering to realise that Slytherin would still protect him, despite his father’s imprisonment and his own admittedly thorough lack of involvement in house politics this year.

He glanced at Pansy, who just smiled at him.

“As you have no doubt heard, Justin Finch-Fletchley will face the Wizengamot for his actions. The Minister for Magic has informed me, as a courtesy, that his trial will begin promptly at nine o’clock Monday morning.”

The murmurs grew louder, the unfriendly glances longer, and Vince and Greg cracked their knuckles menacingly.

“It won’t be easy, of course,” Dumbledore said. “The court case will be controversial, and painful. Emotions will run high on both sides of the fence.” He didn’t say which fence; that, at least, was fairly self-evident. “It is important that we, as a school – as a family – stand together through this difficult time.”

 _Pompous arse_ , Draco thought. He wanted to turn and see what Potter was making of the old wizard’s speech, but he wasn’t even sure Harry had come to dinner. Moreover, Draco had the firmer ground at the moment, which was not something he’d had all that often since they’d started this dangerous little dance. He wasn’t going to give that up easily.

“Obviously, it is nearing exams, so any students who would like to be there for young Mr Finch-Fletchley during his trial are required to apply to their Heads of Houses for special consideration. That is all.”

Dumbledore sat down again, and the tone of the Great Hall changed as everyone realised just what that meant. A chance to get out of school for days, possibly _weeks_. The mutters grew louder and more light-hearted, and the eyes turned away from Draco.

The Slytherins relaxed, and Draco rolled up his parchment and slipped it in his pocket. His fingers brushed against something else. He frowned, pulling it out. It was the photo Creevy had taken. Draco stared at it. Potter must have slipped it into his pocket.

 _Not until you’re mine_.

“Draco?”

“What?” he snapped.

“You all right?” Greg said, tentatively. “Only you look like the Bloody Baron just passed right through you.”

Vincent looked up from his meal, and squinted at Draco. He grunted. “Doesn’t look like that to me,” he said, firmly. “Looks like you interrupted him during one of his thinking moods.”

“Thinking is not a mood,” Draco corrected, even as Greg clubbed the other boy on the back of his head.

“Course he does _now,_ you berk. I was talking about before.”

“What’s the use of that?” Vince said reasonably, and returned to his meal, apparently content that the matter had been settled.

Greg shook his head and turned back to Draco, who slipped the photo back into his pocket. “Can I ask you something?”

Draco frowned at him. Neither he nor Vince were the nosy types, which worked out well, because Draco would usually have had their heads if they _did_ try to pry. “About?”

Greg looked uncomfortable. “Well, it’s only that… there was that date in Hogsmeade, and you did _say_ it was a date. And then, people are saying – well, that you and Potter are –”

“Fucking?” Draco said, bluntly.

Vincent looked up from his meal again. “ _Potter_?” he said, eyes wide.

“But,” Greg said, frowning, “he’s –”

“The Dark Lord’s enemy?” Draco said. “Exactly.”

Understanding dawned. Vince made a face. “Isn’t that gross, Draco?”

“Merlin, no,” Draco said, involuntarily. He glanced at the Gryffindor table despite himself. Potter was there, after all, holding court with his usual crowd of adoring fans. He looked a little pale, and Draco liked the thought that his words had made an impact on him. Otherwise, he was as appallingly gorgeous as always.

The bloody git had taken to wearing robes that were obviously new, and made just for him, moulding to his lean figure in a way that made Draco’s heart race. After their date in Hogsmeade, he’d gone back to wearing his glasses during classes, but someone had done something to his hair that made it look delightfully tousled, instead of a permanent hornet’s nest.

Or maybe that was just Draco’s new perspective. _Fuck_.

He looked back in time to see Vince and Greg exchange a glance. “Yes?” he said, irritably.

“Nothing,” Greg said, hurriedly.

Draco stood abruptly. “I’ll need you tonight. Change to the Redcombe girl; we haven’t used her in a couple of weeks.”

Gregory nodded, and they returned to their dinner. Draco watched them for a moment before he turned and left the Great Hall, reflecting that he no longer found it odd not to have them at his side. They were taking two of their OWLs again, and only two NEWTs, and somehow even on the weekend, they’d stopped spending every minute together. On the one hand, it was a little sad, like the end of an era. On the other...

“Hey, love,” a voice said in his ear, and Draco’s lips quirked up into a smile as Potter bumped his shoulder, falling into step beside him. “Thought you might like some company back to the dungeons.”

“If you say so,” he said, and bumped Potter’s shoulder back.

~*~

Ron was sitting on the floor with his back against a wall, head in his hands, when Hermione returned to Gryffindor. The common room looked like a bomb had gone off in it, and Hermione said so. It garnered her an odd look from Ron, who had apparently sobered up sometime in the last hour.

He opened his mouth, and then shut it again, looking angry and defensive, and utterly miserable.

Hermione sighed. “I love you,” she said, quietly. “I’m sorry.”

He stared up at her. And then he was flushing bright red and scrambling to his feet, blurting out an apology so quickly he was stumbling over his own words. “It was me, not you,” he said, more coherently. “Merlin, Hermione! Don’t apologise. It was me. I was stupid, and drunk, and I didn’t mean any of it.”

She smiled at him warmly. “I was wrong, too. I shouldn’t have told you off like that. I’ll try not to do it so much, but you have to be patient with me.”

“Likewise,” he said, looking relieved, and then a little shy. Hermione felt a pleasant shiver run down her spine when she realised he was looking at her lips. “I really am sorry,” he said, taking a step forward.

“I know,” Hermione said, and tilted her head up a little.

Luckily, Ron wasn’t nearly as oblivious as people assumed he was, and he took it for the invitation it was. She found herself lost in his arms, in the strength of his embrace, in the softness of his lips on hers. And then the moment was broken by a drunken catcall, and they broke apart sheepishly to see the whole common room grinning at them. Dean was the one who had called out, and Ron gave him a half-hearted glare.

Hermione felt herself go bright red.

“Wish we could go somewhere more private,” Ron said, quietly.

“Merlin, yes,” Hermione said, with feeling, and the _look_ he gave her at that – those bright blue eyes burning with heat, for _her_...

The other Gryffindors quickly lost interest in them. The celebration was winding down, and people were beginning to disperse, the older students were getting out their textbooks. There was still some sunlight left, and even on such a day, it was hard to forget that exams were only two short weeks away.

There were two third-year boys snoring under a table, and Seamus was still on the armchair, although someone had turned him right-side up, at least.

Dean looked about ready to join him, almost staggering into the fireplace before Neville caught him. Dean tried to pull away, face lighting up as he spotted Ginny. “Ginny!” he exclaimed. Her face tightened, and Hermione winced; she knew Ginny well enough to know that expression meant trouble. “Ginny, my girlfriend,” he said loudly, grabbing at her with one arm and planting a sloppy, wet kiss on her cheek. Neville grunted as he tried to keep them both upright. “ _My_ girlfriend,” Dean said again, sing-song.

Ginny pulled away abruptly, and the two boys overbalanced and fell over in a tangled heap.

“Bloody hell,” Neville groaned, from underneath Dean, his voice muffled.

Ron gave Hermione an apologetic look, and went to help. “All right, mate,” he said, heaving him up. “I think you might need a nap.”

Hermione stifled a smile and went to Ginny’s side.

“He is _such_ an arse,” Ginny said, forcefully. 

“Mm,” Hermione agreed absently, watching as Ron and Neville half-dragged, half-carried Dean up the stairs. The muscles in Ron’s arms and back were very nice, flexing like that, but she couldn’t help wondering what his arse would look like in jeans. There were times when she _really_ didn’t appreciate the loose robes wizards favoured.

“What?”

Hermione blinked and tore her gaze away from Ron’s hidden backside. “What? Oh. Sorry, Gin,” she said, guiltily. She put an arm around Ginny’s shoulders, giving her a sympathetic hug. “I thought you two were getting on a bit better,” she said. “It looked like it earlier.”

“Yeah,” Ginny sighed, frustrated. “He’s great on the pitch. Brilliant, actually; did you see that save? But he’s so – so – I don’t know. It’s like he sees guys around every corner, just waiting to snatch me away or something. It’s so stupid, Hermione! It drives me crazy. Everything he does, it’s like it’s all designed to _keep_ me. Like some kind of pet.”

Hermione frowned. “I’m sure that’s not how he sees you.”

“I don’t care,” Ginny said, firmly. “I’ve had it. Tonight was the final straw. I’m not putting up with it anymore.”

“Ginny...” Hermione hesitated, wondering if there was any way at all to phrase this delicately. She decided not, but it still had to be asked. “You’re not still carrying a torch for Harry, are you?”

Ginny stiffened. “I don’t know what that means,” she said, icily. “But if you mean do I still have feelings for him, then no. Clearly even _Malfoy_ has a better chance of winning Harry’s heart than me.”

“Oh.” Hermione bit her lip, suddenly worried. “But, Ginny, I thought you were okay with The Plan?”

Ginny sighed. “I was. I am. And I guess I played my part in convincing him to go along with it, so I can hardly complain. It’s just... he was supposed to convince Malfoy he was in love with him. No one said anything about _sleeping_ with him. I hate to think of Harry being subjected to that. He’s always been so innocent, so pure, like all the terrible things that have happened to him have never really touched him. I can’t bear to think of Malfoy sullying that. Sullying _him_.”

Hermione stared at her, fighting not to let her jaw drop. She knew that she was one of the privileged few who knew anything about – well, anything, when it came to Harry Potter’s inner world. But even so, she couldn’t quite believe that Ginny thought he was still a virgin. What did she think he’d done with Justin for a month, just held hands and gazed into each others’ eyes?

“Ginny, Harry isn’t innocent,” she said, a little horrified. “Or pure.”

Far from it, she thought. It was perhaps easier to believe that Ginny didn’t know (or understand, perhaps, because Ron had certainly told them all about the bars across Harry’s window, and no one could miss the way his clothes hung on him at the end of each summer holiday) anything about Harry’s childhood, or lack thereof. But anyone with any sense ought to be able to see that Harry had lost his innocence a very long time ago. There was an old soul behind those guarded green eyes.

Ginny frowned at her. “Not anymore, I know,” she said. “Everyone knows they’re sleeping together. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. He’s gay. He won’t ever be interested in me. I’m moving on. Out with the old, in with the new, as they say.”

“Well, I hope it works out,” Hermione said, tentatively. “I’m always here if you need to talk.”

Ginny nodded. “Thanks, Hermione.”

She grabbed a glass of punch and headed up to the girls’ dormitories, leaving Hermione wondering if it really would work out. Then she heard the distinctive sound of Ron’s footsteps, stomping down the stairs, and she stopped wondering and started smiling.

His strong arms caught her up, and he leaned in to whisper against her ear. “I nicked Harry’s Invisibility Cloak.”

Hermione shivered helplessly.

~*~

Harry tried very hard, the next morning, to pretend he didn’t know exactly what the beaming smile on Ron’s face and the subtle glow about Hermione meant. Fortunately, they weren’t so caught up in each other that they were ignoring him. Quite the opposite, in fact. They seemed to be making every effort to include him in their conversation, and it made him feel – well, at least not _excluded_ , as he’d feared.

The other Gryffindors were still in a celebratory mood. All except Dean, who had been growing steadily more bewildered as breakfast progressed and Ginny continued to ignore him. Harry wasn’t sure what was going on there, exactly, but he didn’t really care. He had other things on his mind.

“I don’t suppose you’ve had time to think about my magic?” he asked Hermione.

The smile that had been playing on her lips all morning dimmed a little. “Oh, no. I’m sorry, Harry. I’ll have a look in the library this morning.”

Harry shook his head quickly. “No, don’t. It’s Sunday, and it’s a beautiful day outside.” The sun was shining brightly in the enchanted ceiling above them, and the sky was a clear, cloudless blue. “Besides, you have better things to do now,” he winked, tilting his head at Ron.

Hermione flushed. “Oh, quiet, you,” she said, shoving at his shoulder.

“He does have a point,” Ron said, through a mouthful of toast.

Hermione tutted, and he swallowed hastily, grinning sheepishly at her. She looked relieved that he hadn’t taken her scolding badly, and smiled back at him with a suspiciously contented air. “I won’t spend all day in there,” she promised. “But you’re right to be worried, Harry. You should have told me sooner. It could be very serious.”

Ron looked alarmed. “What could be very serious?”

“Harry’s magic has been acting on his subconscious wishes,” Hermione explained. “Non-verbally and without a wand, and with significantly greater power than he could manage with a wand. And it only ever happens when he’s… _with_ Malfoy.”

“Hermione,” Harry protested, as Ron’s eyebrows shot up. “You make it sound like it happens while we’re – _you know_.” He could feel himself flushing.

“Two out of the three incidents were while you were in the act,” Hermione said, eminently logical. “And the other was just before, you said so yourself.”

Harry scowled down at his hands.

Ron blew out a hard breath. “Blimey, Harry. Why is it always you?”

“Wish I bloody well knew,” Harry said.

“There has to be records of similar occurrences in the past,” Hermione said. “I’ll start with the books on accidental magic. There are definite similarities to what you’re describing, especially when you take into the account the strength of the magic. You said you weren’t able to replicate the bed later. That sounds a lot like a child’s accidental magic, subconsciously performing spells far beyond their current ability with a wand.”

“Draco says I never actually transfigured those blankets,” Harry told her. “He thinks it was some kind of complex illusion.”

Hermione frowned. “But an illusion like that would require even more power. To sustain it over a period of time, to fool even _you_ , when you were the one who cast it –”

“I know,” Harry said. “It doesn’t make sense. And then… healing his scars. He swears it had to be me, but it’s just not possible. Not even Dittany could have completely erased them from his skin, like Justin’s attack never happened. And – what I did to him yesterday –”

“I know,” Hermione said, taking his hand and squeezing it gently. “Accidental magic is just a place to start. We’ll figure this out. I promise.”

~*~

After breakfast, they walked down to the Black Lake, Hermione’s nose already buried in _A Perspective on Wizarding Children and Accidental Magic: Are They in Touch with the Wild Magicks of Old?_ by Portimus Dunn. It was a huge, dusty old book, and Harry watched her affectionately, thinking that he really was fortunate to have such loyal friends. If anyone could figure out what was going on, Hermione would. She wouldn’t stop looking until she had an answer. It was that persistence Harry thought would win them the war, not a vague prophecy about the ‘power of love’.

“Looks like everyone else had the same idea as us,” Ron commented.

There were students everywhere, sitting in the welcome shade of the trees, walking around the lake in little groups, some even daring to venture out into the shallows. Jenny and Eliza ran by with a large group of first years – including Adeline, Harry noted – and grinned and waved at them. Ron waved back, blushing a little as Hermione nudged his side teasingly.

They settled under the great beech tree by the lake, Hermione Transfiguring a leaf into a blanket before they sat down.

Harry shook his head. “It took me _ages_ to get that.” Which made his freak transfiguration or whatever it was all the more baffling.

Hermione glanced up. “It’s a –”

“Matter of matter,” Ron and Harry chorused, grinning at each other.

She returned to her book, smiling, and Ron threw himself down next to her, moving in close to her side and hesitantly slipping an arm around her waist. She relaxed into the embrace, and Ron closed his eyes with a foolish smile.

Harry sat next to them, staring out across the lake.

_If I deserve to be loved, Potter, so do you._

The sentiment was harmless enough, surely, he thought. It didn’t have to mean anything. Certainly not that Draco was falling in love with him. Still, “Do you think Draco could actually love me?” he asked, apropos of nothing.

Ron’s eyes snapped open, and Hermione’s head jerked up from her book. They stared at him with identical looks of dismay.

“What are you saying, Harry?” Hermione said, carefully.

“Nothing,” he said, irritably. “It was a hypothetical question. You don’t have to look at me as if I just pledged my allegiance to Voldemort.”

“You might as well have,” Ron said. “He’s the _enemy_ , remember? I get that you fancy him, but –”

“But what, Ron?” Harry said sharply, scowling. “Yeah, I fancy him. I can’t help that sleeping with him isn’t – isn’t revolting. He’s not evil, Ron. He might be on the other side, but he’s not our enemy. _Voldemort_ is. Draco’s just scared, and – and a bit misguided, and they’re making him dance to their tune, like a bloody puppet on strings. Dumbledore knows Draco is doing Voldemort’s bidding, and he’s just waiting. He told me Draco has a ‘role to play’. He’s their pawn.”

“Expendable,” Ron murmured, and he wasn’t mocking, or gloating; just stating what was, to him, the obvious conclusion.

“Exactly,” Harry said, relieved. “Dumbledore said he won’t offer him protection until the ‘end’, whatever the fuck that means. And Voldemort’s threatened to feed him alive to _Greyback_ , if he doesn’t complete his task.”

Hermione’s hand rose to cover her mouth. “Fenrir Greyback?” she whispered. Harry nodded, and she looked horrified. “That’s _awful_. Oh Merlin, that’s –”

“We have to get him out,” Harry said, digging his knuckles into his chest, wishing he could rid himself of the terrible, hard lump lodged there. “We _have_ to.”

There was a long pause.

Then Hermione asked, “Do you love him?”

Harry stared at her. “Of course not,” he said, curling his lip a little, like he’d seen Draco do a thousand times. “How can you even ask me that? It’s _Malfoy_.”

 _Hypocrite_ , a small voice inside him whispered. He refused to fall in love again, not after what had happened with Justin. But there was a small part of him, an ugly, horrible part, that _wanted_ Draco to love him. No matter the cost to Draco.

“Are you still worried he’s falling for you?”

“No,” Harry said. Ron was right about that. He had to be. “It’s just something he said. That if he deserves to be loved, so do I.”

Hermione’s breath caught in her throat. “Of course you do,” she said. “Oh, Harry, of _course_ you do!”

“Hear, hear,” a voice drawled from behind them.

Harry almost twisted his neck in his hurry to spin around. “Draco,” he said, tensely, wondering just how much of the conversation he’d overheard. But Draco just looked weary, his eyes troubled. He was alone, his two goons nowhere in sight. “What’s wrong?” Harry asked, worried.

Draco didn’t reply, but he let Harry take his hand, drawing him down onto the blanket. His other hand was curled into a loose fist, and he opened it slowly between them.

Harry heard Hermione gasp. He stared down at the tiny, dead bird, bewildered. “What…?”

“I killed it,” Draco said.

Harry frowned. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hermione take the bird out of Draco’s hand. “Talk to me, sweetheart. What happened? Are you okay?”

“I came out for another.”

“What, so you could kill that one too?” Ron said, bristling. “What are you up to, Malfoy? Practicing the Killing Curse on small animals now? Planning to use it on one of us? On _Harry_?”

“Ron!” Harry snapped. “Not helping!”

Strangely enough, though, Draco had relaxed. “I take it your friends don’t share your changed opinion of me.”

“He’s just trying to protect me,” Harry said. “But I don’t care what they think. Not about you.” Hermione made a small noise in her throat, but he didn’t look at her, still holding Draco’s gaze stubbornly. “What happened?”

“I can’t tell you,” Draco said. But he bowed his head to Harry’s shoulder, and Harry slid his arms around him automatically. He was truly worried now. Draco rarely, if ever, initiated their embraces, and never in public. He was adamant about keeping their relationship from the rest of the student body. What on earth was going on? “I didn’t mean to,” Draco whispered. “I didn’t mean for it to die. You have to believe me, Harry, I n-never –”

“Shh, it’s okay,” Harry soothed him. He stroked Draco’s back gently, remembering how uncomfortable he’d been when Draco had cried in his arms after their Hogsmeade date. What a difference a couple of weeks had made. He _wanted_ Draco close, now; in his arms, where he could pretend to himself that he was doing something. Protecting Draco somehow. “You’re not a killer, Draco. That’s a good thing.”

Draco pulled back, and his eyes were dry, if somewhat reddened. “It’s not,” he said, quietly. “If I can’t – can’t even kill a _bird_ –”

Harry winced. “I know, sweetheart.”

“Do you want to bury it?” Hermione asked, tentatively.

Draco looked at her, surprised. His eyes dropped to the bird cupped in her hands. “I would appreciate that,” he said, stiffly. Harry took his hand, and they watched silently as Hermione cast _Eruo Terra_ , and placed the bird in the hole in the ground. She waved her wand again, moving the soil back to cover the tiny body.

“Thank you,” Draco said.

Hermione glanced up at him, startled. Harry squeezed Draco’s hand, hard.

~*~

Seamus skipped a stone across the lake, watching listlessly as it bounced three times and then sank. Dean sat next to him, looking almost as miserable as he felt. The sun was shining, but it felt like there was a black cloud over their little piece of heaven.

“I don’t even know what I did,” Dean said, picking up a stone and flinging it, hard, into the lake. Ginny was splashing in the shallows nearby with a group of her friends, but she hadn’t looked in their direction once. “Everything was great yesterday. We didn’t even argue, and we always argue about _something_.”

“Don’t ask me,” Seamus said. “I was out cold most of the afternoon. I don’t even remember how I got to bed.”

“Me neither,” Dean sighed. “Maybe that’s it. Maybe she didn’t like how much I had to drink. What if I apologise? Tell her I’ll never touch another drop of alcohol as long as I live, if only she’ll forgive me and take me back –”

“That’s just sad, mate,” Seamus told him, flatly.

Dean deflated. “Yeah. But I should apologise, right? That’s what blokes are supposed to do, even when they have no idea what they’ve done wrong?”

“Couldn’t hurt,” Seamus agreed. He skipped another stone across the water, and jumped a little when a tentacle shot up out of the lake and grabbed the stone, flinging it back at him. “Oops.”

The fifth-years screamed and struggled back to shore, and Dean stood up, looking determined. “Wish me luck?”

“Good luck,” Seamus said, sincerely. His own romantic hopes might be dashed right now, but he wasn’t about to begrudge Dean his.

Dean strode purposefully down the shore, and Seamus lay back, looking up at the cloudless sky. After a moment, he turned his head, searching for another smooth stone to tease the Giant Squid with. Instead, he caught sight of Pansy and her friends.

Pansy waved.

He shot up, unable to prevent the smile crossing his face. It probably made him look like a hopeless fool, but she was smiling, too. Then Zabini leaned down to speak in her ear, and she tilted her head towards him. He slid an arm around her waist, and even from a distance, Seamus could see the way she stiffened. He tried not to visibly react; Pansy didn’t appreciate them fighting over her, not overtly – ‘like dogs with a bone’, she had scolded them once.

But, incredibly, as soon as they were within speaking distance, Pansy stepped out of Blaise’s hold, and walked forward to place a kiss on Seamus’ lips. It was chaste, but quite clear.

Seamus’ heart leapt. “Pansy?”

“I was thinking of taking a walk around the lake,” she said, tucking a perfectly-manicured hand into his elbow. “Join me?”

“Of course,” Seamus said.

Pansy looked back at the other Slytherins. The Enormous Prat’s face was smooth, only his eyes showing his anger. “You’ll forgive me if we part company?”

Daphne smiled at her. “By all means, darling. Enjoy your… walk.” She linked her arm with Zabini’s, drawing him on. The others followed, Bulstrode and Nott looking thoughtful and a little curious.

“They’re not happy with me,” Pansy said, lightly.

“Zabini’s royally pissed off, at least,” Seamus agreed, completely unable to hide the glee he felt.

Pansy laughed softly. “Walk with me, Seamus.”

They set off in the opposite direction around the lake. “Why now?” he had to ask.

He didn’t miss the way her eyes flickered over to where Malfoy sat under the great beech tree with Harry, Ron and Hermione. “Blaise was getting a little too forward,” she said simply, turning her attention back to him. “I’m not in love with him.”

Which didn’t mean she was in love with _him_ , Seamus knew. And it wasn’t the whole truth, either. But he didn’t mind; Pansy was a Slytherin, and he wasn’t about to demand she change for him. He liked it. He liked _her_. If Pansy wanted him, heart and soul and body, she could have him in a heartbeat. And if she just wanted him for a walk around the lake – well, he would try to be content with that.

~*~

Harry let his head fall back against the tree, enjoying the cool breeze that brushed his hot face. Draco was almost boneless, sprawled back against Harry’s chest in that utterly breathtaking way he had of completely surrendering to Harry’s embrace.

Harry didn’t think he could be blamed for his body’s inevitable reaction, despite Ron and Hermione being just three feet away. But it _was_ frustrating. It had to be digging into Draco’s back, but the other boy had given no indication he was aware of Harry’s arousal. In fact, Harry half-suspected the wanker had fallen asleep.

It was flattering, in a way. That Draco trusted him enough to let his guard down in such an intensely private way, in amongst a group of Gryffindors. Not to mention he needed every minute of sleep he got. Harry wasn’t cruel enough to wake him just to point out the state he’d left Harry in, with no way to relieve himself.

“Are you all right?” Hermione asked, softly.

Harry looked over at her. “Yeah,” he smiled, letting his hand drift down to rest across Draco’s stomach. It was surprisingly nice, being this close to someone. Being comfortable, despite the raging hard-on.

Draco stirred against him. “That had better be your wand, Potter,” he murmured.

Harry smirked, turning his head slightly to press his lips against Draco’s ear. “You know it’s not,” he murmured. “You’ve had me inside you. You know _exactly_ how big I am, and my wand doesn’t even come close.”

“Width-wise, perhaps,” Draco acknowledged, stretching so that his body rubbed deliciously up against Harry’s. He was feeling better, then; enough to be deliberately provocative. Harry didn’t mind. He’d much rather have Draco goading him than crying in his arms. “Which doesn’t really say much, does it? And I’m not sure you’d win against your wand for length.”

Harry smiled slowly. “I’ll show you _length_ when I’m pounding your arse into the ground,” he said roughly, catching Draco’s earlobe between his teeth and biting down.

“Get a room, Harry,” Hermione said suddenly, in a clear voice.

His head jerked up, and he stared at his friends in horror. And then they were gone.

“Fuck!” Harry scrambled up, finding himself on an all-too-familiar four poster bed, with white satin sheets and embroidered curtains. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_!” It wasn’t Hermione and Ron who had disappeared. It was him. Somehow he’d managed to _Apparate_ into the Room of Requirement… straight through Dumbledore’s wards as if they were putty. How in the bloody _fuck_ –?

“Well, that’s interesting,” Draco said, curling his legs under him. He looked around calmly. “I thought Apparition inside school grounds was impossible. And you without your licence, too.”

Harry stared at him. Not just Apparition, but _Side-Along_ Apparition. Neither of which Harry or Draco could do yet. His magic was out of control. Powerful illusions, healing beyond the capacity of even Dittany of Crete and White Dittany together, lightning bolts from his fingertips, and now impossible Apparitions?

“It is!” he said, wildly. “Oh Merlin, what have I done? What is _wrong_ with me?”


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for the comments and kudos, they warm my heart! xx

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

**PIECES ON THE BOARD**

_Holding you I held everything_  
_For a moment wasn’t I the king_  
_But if I’d only known how the king would fall_  
_Hey, who’s to say you know I might have changed it all_  
_And now I’m glad I didn’t know_  
_The way it all would end, the way it all would go_

_Our lives are better left to chance; I could have missed the pain_  
_But I’d’ve had to miss the dance_  
~ Garth Brooks

Part One

There was a tense silence in the Room of Hidden Things. Draco sat cross-legged on their bed, regarding Harry with a small frown.

Harry paced nervously.

Their relationship had always been a delicate balancing act, dependent on Draco’s curiosity outweighing his fear. If the risk of allowing Harry to court him became greater than whatever advantages he perceived from it (and Harry liked to think the fantastic sex was at least a _factor_ ), then Draco would break it off. There was no doubt in Harry’s mind about that. And then Draco would have no alternative but to complete his task, and commit murder – if Harry couldn’t stop him first.

Either way, Draco would be lost forever. A criminal with a permanent record, if he wasn’t sentenced to life imprisonment or the Kiss.

And that was something Harry found he couldn’t live with, anymore.

“I gather,” Draco said at last, carefully, “that this _isn’t_ something Dumbledore’s done for you? Made an access exemption for you in the wards, perhaps, or given you an emergency Portkey to the Room, just in case?”

“An emergency Portkey,” Harry echoed. That was actually a really good idea. “No,” he said, “no, but could he have made an exemption to the wards without telling me?”

“No,” Draco said.

“But –”

“Merlin’s balls, Potter,” Draco said, impatiently. "Haven’t you read _Hogwarts: A History_?”

Harry snorted, and Draco’s eyes narrowed. “Sorry,” Harry said. “Just, Hermione’s always going on about that.”

Draco sighed. “I’ll take that as a no. The Headmaster is linked to the lodestones with blood magic laid down by the Four Founders. He’d need you, and your blood, to adjust the wards. You’d remember being a part of a ritual like that.”

“Great,” Harry said, morosely. “So it’s more of my accidental magic, then.”

“Accidental magic?” Draco looked sceptical. “Why would it be accidental magic?”

Harry shrugged. “That’s what Hermione thinks.”

“She’s wrong,” Draco said. “Once you learn control of a wand, there’s no need for the Wild Magic to protect you. Most pureblood children stop experiencing accidental magic by eight or nine, Muggleborns in their first year of school. Only the very slow learners experience accidental magic into their second year. It’s almost unheard of in anyone older than that.”

“I blew up my uncle’s sister the summer hols before third year,” Harry said.

Draco rolled his eyes. “Of course you did. You always have to be the exception to the rule, don’t you?”

“Not intentionally, believe me,” Harry said, dryly. “What do you mean, Wild Magic? What’s Wild Magic?”

Draco scoffed. “You can’t be serious.” Harry shrugged, and Draco stared at him. “Really, Potter. It’s the _foundation_ of our world. How do you think magic is passed on? Not parent to child, obviously, or there would be no such thing as Squibs or Muggleborns. It is the Wild Magic that chooses its own.”

“Whoa, hang on!” Harry said, holding up a hand. “You’re saying whatever this Wild Magic is, it _chooses_ who gets to be a wizard? But then why are purebloods so – so –”

Draco’s eyebrow arched. “Bigoted?” he said, dangerously. “Is _that_ what you were going to say, Potter?”

“You call Muggleborns Mudbloods,” Harry pointed out. “If the Wild Magic chooses us, it doesn’t even make sense.”

“It doesn’t make any sense because you were raised as a Muggle,” Draco said. “The Wild Magic is everything, everywhere. The world is full of it, Light and Dark, and it’s ancient and wild and untameable. It exists in every element – in the earth, in fire, in water, and the air. It can be tapped into through rituals, or complex incantations calling upon it to witness and uphold Vows or Bonds. It gives magic to certain species of animals, and to wizards. We don’t question that choice. What we _do_ question is our culture slowly being eroded away by Muggleborns who don’t understand – or _want_ to understand – thousands of years of wizarding history and culture and tradition.”

“I thought the problem was magic being ‘diluted’ over time,” Harry said, slowly.

Draco snorted. “Only idiots like Gilderoy Lockhart and Nigel Crabbe espouse that kind of nonsense.” He paused. “And –”

“Voldemort?” Harry guessed.

Draco flinched. “Stop it, Potter.”

“Sorry,” Harry said, not very apologetically. “So what does Wild Magic have to do with accidental magic?”

“Simply that it protects its own,” Draco explained, sighing. “Wizarding children are vulnerable without the ability to use and control their own core of magic. The theory is that the Wild Magic responds to our awakening core, and protects us until we can protect ourselves.”

Harry frowned. “But I thought accidental magic came from inside us. Like Neville. He says his great-uncle dropped him out of a two-storey window, and that’s when they knew he was a wizard, because he bounced.”

“Charming,” Draco said, dryly. “But, yes. The Wild Magic protected him. It wouldn’t do the same for a Muggle, or even a Squib.”

Harry thought of the way his accidental magic had come to his aid as a child, rescuing him from Dudley’s gang of schoolyard bullies, growing his hair back when it was cruelly shorn off by his Aunt Petunia, rising up in his defence when Aunt Marge had been abusing the memory of his parents. “Why have I never heard this theory before?” he asked, warily.

“Because it is the _foundation of our world_ ,” Draco stressed. “It’s just understood. Like, I don’t know… any kind of Muggle theory. The theory of gravity.”

Harry tried not to smile. “I think that's a law. And Muggles are taught it in school.”

Draco waved a hand. “A law, then. And we _are_ taught about Wild Magic. You just don’t take any of the right subjects. Magical Theory, or Ancient Runes, or Arithmancy. But that’s beside the point. I’ve never heard of anyone older than twelve using the Wild Magic without a ritual and incantations, or a runic circle, or some other magical means. You don’t even use a wand.”

Harry frowned, his stomach twisting unpleasantly. “So if it’s not Wild Magic, what is it?”

“I don’t know,” Draco said, shrugging. “But since you just Side-Along Apparated me inside school wards, in full view of a few hundred students, I imagine you’re going to have some explaining to do.”

~*~

As it happened, Granger and Weasley were already waiting for them outside the Room, along with Dumbledore, Snape and McGonagall.

Draco took an involuntary, horrified step back when he saw them. Then he cursed himself. For the love of Merlin and Arthur, he could _not_ afford to behave as if he had something to hide. There was no reason they should know this was where he’d been working on his task… No reason except, of course, if Potter had told them. He couldn’t afford to rule that out. But otherwise, as far as they were concerned, this was just the place Potter had chosen to Apparate them to.

Snape caught his eyes, and Draco read the warning there clearly. _Tread carefully_ , it said.

He took a deep breath, and lifted his chin.

Granger didn’t even look at him, pushing past him to fling herself into Potter’s arms. “Oh, Harry!” she cried. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Potter assured her, edging out of the room behind Draco. He reached out and grasped Draco’s hand, in full view of the professors, and Draco felt a smile curve his lips. It appeared Harry was still defiant in his decision to court him, despite their tongue-lashing on Friday. It was powerfully satisfying.

“Ah, the Room of Hidden Things,” Dumbledore said, peering through the door behind them. “Interesting choice.”

His shrewd blue eyes turned on Harry and Draco, and Draco felt the feather-light, teasing pressure of another mind attempting to gain access to his own. He dropped his eyes immediately, but it was too late. Dumbledore had slipped through the cracks in his shields. He shoved the Headmaster out immediately, heart lurching in his chest.

Fuck _. Fuck_. Since when were there cracks in his shields? How had he not _noticed_?

He was still using the potions, if a little more sparingly now. Even with Potter’s Time-Turner, it was difficult to keep up with everything. Especially when he was increasingly tempted to spend the whole night on the Vanishing Cabinet, and go back in time to do his homework. The half-life of a normal dose of Invigoration Draught in his system was just nine minutes, now.

And his shields were failing. Oh Merlin, if the Dark Lord used Legilimency on him now –

Potter must have felt him trembling, because he shot him a concerned look. Draco shook his head minutely. Potter squeezed his hand, and turned back to the group. “How’d you know we’d be here?” he asked.

“It was an educated guess,” Granger said, fretfully. “I am so sorry, Harry. I never thought this would happen. I didn’t even – but how could I? I thought your magic might give you some kind of shelter, or put up privacy wards. But your subconscious must have latched onto the word ‘room’, and brought you here. It’s the only explanation.”

Potter stared at her. “You mean you did this deliberately?” Storm-clouds were gathering on his brow, and Draco watched it happen with a detached sense of interest. “You were experimenting on me?” he said, voice rising. “On _us_? How could you _do_ that? I could have hurt him!”

Draco opened his mouth, but it was as if all the air had been knocked from his body. Potter was protecting him. Protecting him from _Granger and Weasley_.

Granger looked like she might burst into tears, and Weasley took a half-step forward, hands outstretched. “She didn’t know what would happen, mate,” he said. “Really.”

“Harry,” Draco said, tugging on his hand.

Potter turned to look at him, and Draco almost staggered back at the cold fury in his eyes. It reminded him so forcibly of the Dark Lord that for a moment he forgot where he was, forgot who he was with. But then the green eyes cleared, and they were just those too-pretty green eyes again, smiling at him. “ _Hey_. You called me Harry.”

“I did no such thing,” Draco scoffed, trying to hide how shaken he was. “Are you hearing voices now?”

“Going to report me to Rita Skeeter, if I am?” Harry retorted.

Draco smirked, relaxing a little. “I can just see the headlines now. _The Boy Who Lived Loses What’s Left Of His Mind: Next Stop, The Janus Thickey Ward_. Whatever will we do without you, Potter?”

Harry smiled at him. “Have fewer orgasms?”

“I didn’t realise you were so free with your orgasms,” Draco taunted. The unexpectedly light banter was easing nerves frayed almost to breaking point by the day's events, and he reflected that those extraordinarily green eyes really weren’t anything at all like the Dark Lord’s. Why had he thought that? “Are you saying I’m not your only lover?”

“You are my only lover,” Harry said, suddenly serious. His eyes were solemn and beautiful, drawing Draco irresistibly closer. “And my only love.”

Draco reached out to touch Harry’s bottom lip with his thumb. Harry caught it between his teeth, biting down gently.

“ _Enough_!” Snape bellowed, and the shock of it reverberated through Draco like a physical blow. He sprang backwards. “By Salazar, have the two of you no shame?!”

Draco felt heat flood his face. “Sorry, sir,” he muttered.

“If I might suggest we take this to a more appropriate venue?” McGonagall agreed. “The middle of the hallway is hardly the place for this discussion.”

“Quite right, Minerva, quite right,” Dumbledore agreed. “And since my office is up and down a great many tiring staircases, I suggest we utilise our resources right here.” He winked at Harry. “My old knees aren’t what they used to be.”

Harry smiled back at him hesitantly, and Draco stiffened. He hated that; the bald-faced manipulation Potter didn’t even seem to see. He wanted so badly to hate the old wizard for it. Maybe that would make his task easier. But then, maybe it wasn’t supposed to be easy. He’d seen death; it seemed to come naturally to his father. He’d assumed it would be the same for him. He’d cast the Imperius Curse on Madam Rosmerta without even a twinge of conscience. But when he’d killed that bird, sending it through the Vanishing Cabinet...

It had been _necessary_. He had to have a living subject before he could be sure it was safe to let wizards pass through. But it had hurt so inexplicably, to see that tiny body still and lifeless because of him.

He’d found himself leaving the Room, looking for Potter – for the comfort of his arms – before he could even think. He’d been utterly insensible of the consequences of his actions. It hadn’t been until Harry had taken his hand and drawn him down onto the blanket that Draco had regained any cognizance of his actions. And by then, of course, it had been too late.

He had declared himself to the world. And now there would be hell to pay.

~*~

“There,” Dumbledore said. “I think that will be sufficient.”

He opened the door, and Harry peered inside. The Room of Requirement had turned into a cosy lounge, with a roaring fire, and three comfortable sofas placed around a coffee table. A tapestry hung on the wall, of a dragon breathing fire at an army of wizards. “Are you okay?” he whispered to Draco, as they all filed in.

Draco glanced at him, and then away. “Fine.”

They sat together on the sofa closest to the fire, ignoring Snape’s snort of disgust, and Ron and Hermione squeezed in next to them. Harry noticed Draco looking at the tapestry. “That’s really nice.”

“Mm,” Draco agreed. “The last, infamous Dragon Hunt of 1899.”

Harry looked at it again, noticing three tiny dragons cowering behind the other’s legs. “They used to hunt dragons?” he asked.

“For centuries,” Draco agreed. “But in 1899, a female Hebridean Black stood for thirteen hours against ten wizards, protecting her three young cubs, and roasted all of the wizards alive. Not before sustaining mortal wounds herself, however. The dragons were already on the verge of extinction in Britain, and when the wizarding public heard about it, a grass-roots campaign was formed to pressure the Wizengamot into passing a law to protect the few, remaining dragons. It wasn’t long afterwards that the rest of the world followed, and the reserve in Romania was established. The Hebridean cubs are still there, I believe.”

Which meant Charlie probably worked with them now. “Cool,” Harry said. “You know a lot about dragons, huh.”

Draco smiled. “Let’s just say my mother indulged my curiosity. I am their namesake, after all.”

“Harry,” Hermione whispered, touching his arm. “I _am_ sorry. It’s just, you were obviously, you know –” She flushed bright red. “And – and I thought we might not get another chance like that, to test our theory. And now, after seeing you Apparate inside school ground _s_ , through the Anti-Apparition wards... Harry, how did you _do_ that?

“I think we would all like the answer to that,” McGonagall said.

Harry winced. “I honestly don’t know, professor. One second I’m down by the lake, and then suddenly I’m up here. I don’t even remember thinking about the Room. It just happened. I haven’t even done the Apparition course yet. I’m too young.”

She looked at Dumbledore. “How is that possible, Albus? The wards –”

“Are intact,” Dumbledore assured her. “It is troubling, indeed. Still more so, that I should have felt the intrusion, and I did not.”

Harry stared at him, appalled. “Sir, are you saying you didn’t _know_? But then, why are you here if –”

“Miss Granger had the presence of mind to come directly to me,” McGonagall said. “And I alerted the Headmaster and Professor Snape.”

“We couldn’t find you anywhere, Harry,” Hermione said, and mouthed _the map_ at him. Harry nodded, remembering that the Room of Requirement didn’t show up on the Marauder’s Map. “And then Ron thought of the Room of Requirement, and I realised that of course that would be your first thought.”

“I don’t understand,” Harry said, helplessly. “What’s happening to me?”

Dumbledore's gaze turned to Draco. “Would you care to contribute anything to the discussion, Mr Malfoy?”

Harry bristled. “Draco doesn’t have anything to do with this. He didn’t ask to be Apparated here against his will. He didn’t ask for any of this. If anything, my magic’s done it _to_ him.”

Dumbledore’s bushy eyebrows rose. “My dear boy. You’re saying this accidental Apparition is not the first thing that has happened?”

Harry winced. “No, sir. Um. The first time, it was an illusion. That is, I thought I’d transfigured some blankets into a – a bed. I didn’t really mean to, and it was without my wand or an incantation. And – we could touch it. Draco even changed the colour of the curtains. But I couldn’t replicate it later, even with a wand.”

McGonagall frowned. “You’re saying you interacted with it both physically and magically, and yet you believe it was an illusion? Why?”

Harry shrugged, and looked at Draco.

“I saw the last traces of magic fading, professor,” Draco said. “It could not have been either a transfiguration or a conjuration. It was, unquestionably, an illusion.”

McGonagall’s frown deepened. “Creating an illusion of the complexity and solidity that you describe, to work on the mind and the senses, and maintain it in such a fashion, is magic far beyond a sixth-year student. And only a Mage of the Illusionary Arts could have performed such a spell wandlessly, let alone without an incantation. It is frankly laughable to suppose Mr Potter could have achieved, unintentionally, the mastery of a craft it takes others several _decades_ of seclusion and dedication to attain. No offence intended, Potter.”

Harry sighed. He kind of wished it was a joke, actually. “None taken, professor.”

She looked at him, expression troubled, and then at Dumbledore.

“Was there anything else?” Dumbledore asked.

Harry squirmed. “I, uh. Yes? I may have… healed Draco’s scars, from Justin’s attack. By, er – um –”

“Licking them,” Draco said, helpfully.

Harry felt his face heat. McGonagall closed her eyes. Ron made a choking noise.

Snape leaned forward, his eyes narrowed. “I thought you were wearing a particularly effective glamour, Mr Malfoy. Poppy said those wounds would never heal.”

“No glamour, sir.”

“Indeed,” Dumbledore said. “Mr Malfoy is not wearing any magic. The scars do appear to have healed.”

“But that’s impossible –”

“That does seem to be the common theme here,” Dumbledore agreed. “Then again, I might remind you that it was once considered impossible to survive the Killing Curse, and yet here Mr Potter sits.” Harry flinched, and Dumbledore smiled at him. “Miss Granger, I don’t suppose you have a theory?”

Hermione looked startled, and then apologetic, as if it were her fault she hadn’t figured it out yet. “No, sir. At least, I’ve been reading up on accidental magic, but –”

“It’s not accidental magic,” Draco said.

“But there _are_ similarities,” Hermione argued. “It’s unintentional, it’s wandless, it’s far more powerful than Harry’s usual magic...” She paused, looking uncomfortable. “I just can’t see yet how his, er, physical state fits in.”

Harry groaned, and buried his face in his hands.

“I beg your pardon?” McGonagall said.

“It’s just, every time it’s happened,” Hermione said, her voice a plea for Harry to take over. He ignored her valiantly. “That is, there’s a pattern Harry – we noticed. I don’t know if it’s relevant, or how it relates to the accidental magic, but every time it’s happened, he’s been, uh – he’s been –”

“Aroused, Granger,” Draco said, in a tone of long-suffering. Harry heard several quick, indrawn breaths. He couldn’t look at anyone, instead closing his eyes tightly, hunching his shoulders and wishing very hard that he was _anywhere else_ in the world right now. Maybe he could Apparate again? Somewhere very, very far away. Right now. Oh, Merlin. “And it is _not_ accidental magic.”

Dumbledore hummed. “At this juncture, I would suggest that we explore all avenues of investigation, Mr Malfoy. It is far too important to rule anything out just yet. Harry, I would like you to go to the infirmary and allow Madam Pomfrey to do a thorough check-up. Miss Granger, you seem to have a knack for research. Your help would be invaluable, if you would consent to give it.”

Harry peeked through his fingers to see her colour, obviously pleased. “Oh! Of course. I’d be happy to.”

“Good,” Dumbledore said. “Now, Harry.” Harry swallowed, but looked up. “As you can imagine, your disappearance from the lake did not go unnoticed. Unfortunately, that means I’m going to have to give you detention. I’m sure you understand. Hogwarts’ wards cannot be perceived to have weakened in any way, and we cannot reveal the truth, lest it come to You-Know-Who’s attention.”

Harry nodded, resigned. Detention was becoming a way of life for him, this year.

“To that end, also,” Dumbledore said, “Mr Malfoy must be Obliviated.”

Harry stiffened. “What?”

Draco shrank back.

“You must see that we have no choice,” Dumbledore said, gently. “Your magic is either out of control, or a great deal more powerful than we could ever have imagined, Or, worse, both. Whatever the truth, Lord Voldemort must not learn of it.”

Harry shifted forward in his seat, as if he could shield Draco with his body alone. “If Draco was going to tell Voldemort anything, he’d have done so already. He might have, for all I know. For all I _care_. Sir.”

“Creating an illusion of a bed is very different to Apparating through Anti-Apparition wards,” Dumbledore said, his voice firming. “I’m sorry, but that is a real, tactical advantage I cannot allow to be leaked to the other side.”

“It’s not a tactical advantage when I have to be _with_ Draco, and HARD!” Harry yelled, forgetting his embarrassment entirely in his temper.

“ _Mr_ Potter!” McGonagall admonished.

Harry was too angry to pay her any attention. “You’re just trying to keep Draco in his place, keep him playing the role you and Voldemort want him to play. Your pawn in your own fucking game of chess! Letting him be sacrificed just to keep ME safe! Well, I won’t let you do it! I don’t hear you telling _Snape_ he has to be Obliviated, and he’s one of the fucking _inner circle_!”

“Professor Snape has earned my trust, Harry,” Dumbledore said, reprovingly.

“So give Draco the chance to do the same!”

“We can’t take the risk, Potter,” McGonagall said. “Surely you understand that? Professor Dumbledore is right. Mr Malfoy must be Obliviated, for the safety of us all. He may have already revealed the other incidents to You-Know-Who – either directly or indirectly – but this one _must_ be erased from his mind.”

Harry stared at them all. “No,” he said, at last. “No. It’s my magic, and my choice whether to trust him or not. I gave him my word that I would protect him, and I won’t be able to live with myself if you make me break that. I _won’t_.”

There was a short silence. Then Hermione said, carefully, “But, Harry, didn’t you say you’d offer him your protection _after_ he defected? He hasn’t, yet.”

Harry shot her a furious look of betrayal. Was she _trying_ to sabotage The Plan? Draco’s life depended on it! “I love him, Hermione. I told you that. I will protect him with my life – from all of you if I have to!”

“No, no, my boy,” Dumbledore interrupted. He looked tired, suddenly. “That won’t be necessary. You’re right. It should be your decision. I won’t Obliviate young Mr Malfoy without your permission, I give you my word.”

Harry relaxed slightly. “Fine. Good. You don’t have it,” he said, just to be clear, “and you never will. Come on, Draco.”

He turned to his lover, and found Draco staring at him blankly. There were tiny tremors running through his too-slender frame; down his arms and into his hands where they were clenched in Harry’s robes. Harry disentangled them gently, and held them in his own as he stood, drawing Draco up.

“The infirmary, my boy,” Dumbledore reminded him. “Minerva, will you escort them there? Severus will join you there shortly.”

~*~

“We have a problem,” Dumbledore said, flatly.

Severus sighed. “As always, Headmaster, your grasp of the blindingly obvious is unparalleled.”

Dumbledore frowned. “I understand that you are unhappy, Severus. But the events that have been set in motion cannot be changed. We must simply try to ensure that Harry is kept safe.”

“Until he has been properly prepared to accept that he has to die, of course,” Severus said, bitterly. He knew it was necessary, but it grated, deep inside, that Lily’s son would be sacrificed on the altar of Dumbledore’s war. It grated that he had been manipulated, all these years, into protecting the boy, only to be told that _he_ must be the one to send the boy to his death.

“Of course,” Dumbledore said. “Until his time comes. As it must for all of us.”

Severus closed his eyes. The way Dumbledore spoke of his own death, of how _Severus_ would have to kill him... as if it didn’t matter. As if it wouldn’t cost him _everything_. “What are you going to do about Draco and Potter?” he asked.

“That is indeed the question,” Dumbledore said. “It appears Harry will not be dissuaded, despite my best efforts. Which means we can only try to contain the situation. Have you been able to persuade young Malfoy to talk to you?”

“Not about his task, no,” Severus said. “He refuses to do anything that might place his mother at risk.”

“And yet he is in a relationship with the one person the Dark Lord hates above all others,” Dumbledore said, shaking his head. It was, indeed, baffling.

“If he is passing on information about Potter, the Dark Lord is keeping it close to his chest. I’ve tried using Legilimency, but the boy avoids my gaze, and I cannot force him without betraying my own hand.”

“No,” Dumbledore said thoughtfully. “And I wonder if he isn’t much better at Occlumency than we imagined.”

Severus shook his head. “The night of Slughorn’s party, I was able to access his mind for a few moments. His shields were clumsy, amateurish. It makes sense; it is doubtful Bellatrix would teach him the skills to fool her.”

“Perhaps not Bellatrix,” Dumbledore mused. “But Narcissa was also exceptionally talented at Occlumency, if I remember correctly. So talented that I was never able to read anything but the most superficial of her thoughts, even when she was a young child. When I attempted to access Draco’s mind this morning, I saw those ‘clumsy’ shields you speak of, but I managed to go deeper before he broke the connection. There was a sense that something was wrong. That I should not normally have been able to get past those first shields. It was intriguing.”

Severus frowned. It was an old Occlumens trick; setting inferior shields as the first line of defence, designed specifically to fool an attacker. The true shields were much deeper, and much more sophisticated. He himself had given up the simple deception, long ago. Both Dumbledore and the Dark Lord knew him too well to be fooled by it.

It had never occurred to him that Draco could have been using it to fool _him_.

“Then,” he said slowly, seeing a ray of hope, “you could offer him a way out now. You could get him out before he has time to complete his task.”

“No,” Dumbledore sighed. “I am very sorry, Severus, but there is something wrong with his shields. Even were he to choose not to reveal my offer, there is still a risk the Dark Lord or one of his servants might use Legilimency against him, and discover that I know. Safer to wait until the moment of truth.”

“The moment of truth?” Severus said, baffled. “Headmaster, you have shown your hand already. The boy knows you suspect him of passing information to the Dark Lord.”

“But not necessarily of plotting to kill me,” Dumbledore countered.

“What difference does it make?” Severus said, frustrated. “The boy is scared out of his mind, and redeeming his family in the Dark Lord’s eyes is not nearly as important to him as ensuring his mother’s safety. I believe he would defect, if we could just convince him that he and his family would be safer under your protection. Or Potter’s, if the boy is more inclined to trust him instead of us. Which, after the way you threatened to Obliviate him, and the performance Potter just gave us, is quite likely.”

Dumbledore was quiet for a moment.

“Severus,” he said, slowly. “Is it – could it be possible that this has been Harry’s plan all along? That his professed love for Mr Malfoy has always been simply that: a performance? I did not think him capable of misleading me, and I remember well the capacity of the young to fall in and out of love at the shake of a crup’s tail. But… it was a very _quick_ turn-around, wasn’t it? From desperately trying to convince half the professors on staff that Draco Malfoy had been recruited by Lord Voldemort, to being in ‘love’ with him?”

Severus stared at him. “Potter doesn’t have the brains to plan and pull off such an elaborate ruse,” he said, blankly. “To fool even Draco… that smacks of a _conspiracy_.”

~*~

Pansy stared at the door to the infirmary. They had been refused admittance for the second time in as many weeks, relegated to the benches outside. At least Hermione had done her the courtesy of telling her Draco was all right, this time. But she hated that he might _not_ be, and that she had no real way of knowing for sure, or of protecting him. She had shoved Draco straight into the acromantula’s nest, and now he was in there alone, and Merlin knew what they were doing to him.

“This is ridiculous,” she said. “They can’t do this. They can’t _keep_ us from him like this –”

“Careful, Pansy dear,” Blaise murmured. “You don’t want to make Finnigan jealous, do you?”

Pansy controlled her instinct to snap back at him. Instead, she raised a contemptuous eyebrow. “Of Draco? I think not. _You_ , on the other hand, appear to be jealous of Seamus.”

“Oh, not jealous, Pansy,” Blaise drawled. “You gave me your word.”

Pansy glanced at Daphne and Theo, who were sitting a small distance from them. Crabbe and Goyle were between them, but she couldn’t afford for any of them to overhear this conversation. She lowered her voice further. “My word that when you hold up your end of the bargain, I will hold up mine. That hasn’t changed.” As much as she had enjoyed his wrath at her snub at the lake, she couldn’t afford to let him slip the hook. “Draco has made his relationship with Potter official. I intend to use my new ‘relationship’ with Seamus to show my solidarity with him.”

A smile touched the corner of Blaise’s lips. “Poor bugger,” he said. “I should have known. You don’t have a romantic bone in your body, do you?”

“Seamus isn’t my concern right now,” Pansy said, flatly. “Draco is. And he should be yours, too.”

Blaise inclined his head. “Fair enough. You’ll have my support. You know that.”

“Good,” she said. “Because the other Slytherins will be looking to us for answers. I’ll start putting out feelers, hinting at the idea that there might be a way out. Watching for anyone who might present a problem.”

“And yet you still don’t know whether Draco will even accept Potter’s offer,” Blaise mused. “You put a lot of faith in Potter’s ability to lie, dearest Pansy.”

“Not his ability to lie,” Pansy said, and Blaise raised an eyebrow.

But at that moment, a girl came skidding down the hallway. “I just heard Harry’s in the infirmary!” she cried. “Is he okay? What happened? Everyone’s saying Malfoy took him – a Death Eater plot –” She broke off abruptly, realising she was facing a group of Slytherins, all of whom looked distinctly unimpressed.

Vince cracked his knuckles.

“They’re fine,” Pansy said, coldly. She recognised the girl as Weasley’s sister, Ginerva. “And Draco didn’t _take_ him anywhere. Apparently it was a prank gone wrong. Potter’s prank.”

Ginerva frowned. “That’s not true. It must have been Malfoy. Harry wouldn’t _do_ that.”

“And yet he did, Miss Weasley,” Professor Snape said, striding up behind her.

She jumped a little, but faced him with a mulish expression. _Stupid child_ , Pansy thought. She had no patience for stupidity, and making reckless accusations about Draco Malfoy to a group of his most loyal friends _and_ their Head of House, who openly and volubly despised Gryffindors, and Potter in particular – well, that was stupidity on a grand scale.

“Mr Potter has admitted to casting a Disillusionment Charm outside class time, with the intent to make people think he and Draco had disappeared,” Snape said coolly, only his black eyes showing his malicious enjoyment. “He will be serving detention every night for the next five days, due to his involvement of Mr Malfoy in the prank without Mr Malfoy’s knowledge, and the fright he gave so many of the other students.”

He brushed past them and into the infirmary, stopping only briefly when Pansy made an aborted move to reach out. “I will let you know as soon as I have any news,” he assured her, and then he was gone.

“Harry wouldn’t _do_ that,” Ginerva muttered, rebelliously.

Pansy scowled at her. “Why are you still harping on? Clearly he did, Weasley.”

“I don’t know,” Blaise said, thoughtfully. “It does seem somewhat out of character.”

Pansy looked at him in surprise, but he was focused entirely on the Weasley girl, his face set in a sympathetic mask. Ginerva smiled at him in grateful surprise, and Blaise’s motivation suddenly became crystal clear. Daphne glanced at Pansy with a small smirk, and Theo rolled his eyes. Vince and Greg didn’t even blink.

“Did you see it happen?” Blaise asked, solicitously.

“No,” Ginerva said. “But one of my friends did, and she _screamed_. It was terrifying; I thought someone had died, and then she said it was _Harry_...”

“You care for him a great deal,” Blaise said, touching her shoulder. When Ginerva didn’t shrug him off, he slid it down to rest in the small of her back. “It must have been so difficult, waiting for news...” he murmured, shepherding her further down the hallway, away from the knowing expressions on his friends’ faces.

“He really is charmingly predictable,” Daphne sighed, shaking her head. “I do wonder, though, how many more conquests he can achieve before his reputation begins to precede him. Frankly, I’m surprised it hasn’t already.”

“Some are more oblivious than others,” Pansy said, turning away from the touching little scene they’d all seen Blaise enact before, too many times to count. “But then, what else can we expect from Gryffindors?”

Daphne looked amused. “Apparently, _some_ of us expect a great deal from certain Gryffindors, at least.”

Pansy smiled. “Touché. I’ll admit to a fondness for one particular Gryffindor.”

“It seems to be catching,” Theo observed. “You and Finnigan. Draco and Potter. Blaise and this Weasley chit.”

Pansy’s lip curled. “Blaise just wants another notch in his bedpost.” And, of course, to make her jealous, although he knew from past experience it wouldn’t work. He continued to amuse himself trying, however. Pansy had no intention of telling him that with every conquest, he made her a little more determined that he would never call her his. “That’s all.”

“Oh?” Daphne said, looking interested. “As opposed to… you and Draco?”

Pansy met her blue eyes, pausing deliberately to let Daphne’s words hang in the air between them. “I suppose,” she said finally, “that that is something only time will tell.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for the comments and kudos! Please do let me know if you're enjoying it so far xx

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

**PIECES ON THE BOARD**

Part Two

“Really, Mr Potter,” Madam Pomfrey sighed, for the fifth time in the last hour. “This is most irregular.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Harry apologised, also for the fifth time. But like every time before, he stayed stubbornly where he was. He hadn’t let go of Draco once since the Room of Requirement. As soon as Madam Pomfrey had directed them to the beds, he’d climbed up next to Draco and pulled him back against his chest, arms tight around him.

It was ridiculously possessive, but then, Draco was inclined to forgive a little possessiveness right now.

After all, it wasn’t every day he had an absurd breakdown over killing a bird, outed his illicit relationship with Harry Potter to the entire student body of Hogwarts, Side-Along Apparated through Anti-Apparition wards, discovered potentially fatal cracks in his Occlumency shields, and then had the _Headmaster_ of Hogwarts threaten to tamper with his mind, while the one man who had pledged himself to Draco’s aid, time and time again, had been silent, clearly communicating his willingness to turn his back on him if it came down to a choice: Draco or his cover. (Worse, that it wasn’t a cover at all, and Snape had been prepared to sacrifice Draco’s memories for the sake of Dumbledore’s war.)

Madam Pomfrey shook her head, looking resigned and a little amused. “Well, there is nothing physically wrong with either of you that can’t be cured with rest and a good, square meal.” She pinned Draco with a stern look. “Or rather, _several_ , in your case, Mr Malfoy. And perhaps some chocolate. I have a fresh batch just in from Honeydukes. Just one moment...”

She hurried away, and Draco relaxed. She had been making pointed comments ever since they had arrived; clearly she was still upset he had refused to stay for the full course of treatment after Finch-Fletchley’s attack.

“You can let go now, Potter,” he offered.

“Actually, I kind of can’t,” Harry said. “My arms won’t move.”

Draco didn’t believe that for a second, but he just sighed and turned his head, nudging his nose into the crook of Harry’s neck. He smelled clean, and fresh, a bit like pine trees and freshly-fallen snow, and Draco breathed in deeply, letting it fill his lungs and drive out the fear.

He was going to have to find some way to justify their relationship to the Dark Lord. Which would inevitably mean betraying the trust Potter had put in him, foolish Gryffindor that he was. Except… he didn’t _want_ to betray that trust. His mother was in mortal danger, and all he really wanted to do was stay safely tucked in Harry’s arms, and imagine that he was far, far away, in a forest of pine trees covered in snow.

“I really _am_ sorry, Harry,” Granger said. Again.

Draco snorted softly and closed his eyes.

“It’s okay,” Potter told her, predictably. “I guess we have to know the extent of this thing, if we’re going to find out what it is.”

“It’s bloody bizarre, if you ask me,” Weasley said. “I’ve never heard of anything that _increases_ your power when you’re, er –”

“ _Hard_ , Weasley,” Draco said wearily, cracking his eyelids open. “Aroused. In a state of erection. Merlin, you lot are hard work. And I do _not_ mean in the good way.”

Weasley bristled, starting to his feet.

Harry held up his hand. “Stop it, Ron.”

“It wasn’t _me_ ,” Weasley began, but he subsided when Harry shook his head warningly. “Fine,” he said. “I was only trying to help, wasn’t I? I was just going to say the closest thing I can think of is marriage bonds. There’s a sort of shared magic then, isn’t there? Mum and Dad can use their bond to increase the strength of some spells, if they focus.”

“Yes,” Granger said, slowly. “I looked into bonds earlier this year, when Fleur said she and Bill were thinking about a binding ceremony as part of their wedding. But Harry’s not bonded. There has to be a formal ceremony for that, and mutual trust, and – well.”

Draco curled his lip. “You’re all grasping at straws. Accidental magic, marriage bonds… Merlin’s beard! There is far more to this world than _Muggleborns_ will ever comprehend.”

“Well, I don’t hear _you_ contributing any ideas,” Granger snapped, just as Weasley said, “ _I’m_ not Muggleborn, you bigoted little prat!”

“Hey!” Harry yelled. “Stop it!”

Madam Pomfrey came bustling back over, tutting. “What in heaven’s name is going on here?”

Draco relaxed back into Harry’s arms, putting on his most angelic face. It hadn’t worked on Pomfrey since third year, when she’d seen right through his bluff about the hippogriff’s bite, but it would at least serve to drive Weasley up the wall.

As anticipated, Weasley growled under his breath.

Harry spoke over him quickly. “Nothing, ma’am! Just a little disagreement.”

“Well, save it for outside my infirmary, please,” she said, handing them both some chocolate. Draco’s piece was significantly larger than Potter’s; a huge chunk, in fact, and he stared at it in dismay. “Eat up, now,” she encouraged. “And, Mr Malfoy?” He looked up, meeting her eyes. “All of it, please.”

Draco grimaced. “Yes, ma’am.”

She folded her hands in her robes, frowning. “As I said, there is nothing physically wrong with either of you. In fact, I can find no trace of the scars Mr Finch-Fletchley left you with, Mr Malfoy. It is as if they never existed. Which is not precisely a problem, in and of itself – in fact, I should dearly like to know how you did it, Mr Potter, but –”

“But?” Harry prompted, when she hesitated.

“I have several concerns about your magic,” she said. “Both of you.”

Draco straightened. “ _Both_ of us?”

“There are certain irregularities. Readings that do not quite match up, that I cannot explain as the drain from Apparating through the school wards.”

“But I don’t feel drained,” Harry objected.

“My concern exactly,” Madam Pomfrey agreed. “Nor should your spell have affected Mr Malfoy’s magic in any way, and yet it appears to have done so. The best way I can describe it is a ripple effect. I am also disturbed that these incidents seem to occur only while you are together. The very fact that there is a clear correlation between these incidents and your proximity to, and physical arousal for Mr Malfoy – well, that indicates to me that there is something of a mutual energy transfer occurring. Perhaps even that you are drawing magic from Mr Malfoy somehow.”

Draco froze. It had, of course, occurred to him that the ‘Apparition’ and subsequent scene in the Room could have been faked; played out entirely for his benefit, to feed disinformation about Potter and his magic back to the Dark Lord. But the idea that it might be _real,_ and worse, that Harry was _leeching_ his magic from him, intentionally or otherwise...

A cold shiver went down his spine.

“Drawing magic,” Harry said, slowly. “You mean stealing it?”

“I thought that was impossible,” Granger said. “It’s one of the laws of Magic. Immutable, unchangeable. That wizards can’t take magic from other wizards.”

“Not exactly, I’m afraid, Miss Granger,” Madam Pomfrey sighed. “It’s certainly not something the average witch or wizard could do.” And then, seeing their faces, “It’s just a working theory, for now. I will need more evidence before I come to any solid conclusions.”

“That sucks as a theory,” Harry muttered.

Draco was inclined to agree. He felt sick. “Can you stop it?”

Pomfrey shook her head. “Not until I form a clearer understanding of what’s happening. Professor Snape has agreed to brew some diagnostic potions that will help. In the meantime, all I can suggest is that you refrain from putting yourself in situations where this magic is likely to be triggered again.”

Harry made a noise of such dismay that Draco couldn’t help but smirk, despite his horror. “Going to miss my arse wrapped around your cock, Potter?” he murmured.

Harry caught Draco’s earlobe between his teeth, biting down gently. “ _You’re_ going to miss my teeth,” he retorted, his hands beginning a deliberate journey south. Weasley choked, loudly, and Granger made a squeaking sound. Harry ignored them. Draco _liked_ that, probably more than he should. “My mouth, my hands. My –”

They were wrenched apart by an invisible force, and Madam Pomfrey tucked her wand away. “And that is the end of _that_ , thank you,” she said austerely, but she didn’t continue to admonish them, instead looking between them with a worried expression that spoke volumes.

~*~

Madam Pomfrey stood over Draco to make sure he ate every bite of his chocolate, and then discharged them from the infirmary with a stern warning to take care of themselves at the trial. Harry paused at that, one leg off the bed. “The trial?” he echoed. He looked at Draco. “You don’t have to go, do you?”

Draco frowned. “I’m the complainant, Potter.”

Harry was conscious of a sinking feeling. “Are they going to call you to the stand?”

Draco looked a little sour. “The prosecutors are still ‘undecided’. Apparently, there is fear that my testimony may harm the case. But I have to be in attendance, just in case. Even though I don’t remember what happened, so the only real contribution I could make would be a list of my injuries. All things considered, that will be better coming from Madam Pomfrey.”

“Madam Pomfrey is speaking for you?”

“Indeed I am,” she said, briskly. “When one of my students is brutally assaulted, resulting in injuries so severe that he requires nine _hours_ of intensive care – well, I do not stand idly by, no matter what the Aurors overseeing the case may say.”

Hermione looked scandalised. “You’re saying they didn’t _want_ you to testify, ma’am? But I haven’t been asked, either, and the trial’s tomorrow! Surely they want witnesses? Who else is testifying for the prosecution?”

Madam Pomfrey glanced at Draco, and there was pity in her eyes. “I am not aware of anyone else.”

“What?” Harry demanded. He remembered his own trial, last year; a full criminal case with the entire Wizengamot in attendance. The court had been closed to the public, because he was a minor, but in every other way, Fudge had manipulated the proceedings to suit his own ends. “I’m going to Dumbledore,” he decided. “He’ll _make_ them call me –”

“You’ve already offered to speak for Finch-Fletchley, remember?” Draco said. “Even if they allowed you to speak for the prosecution as well, you’d make him a laughing stock.”

Harry frowned. “No one’s contacted me about speaking. Maybe Justin doesn’t want me as a witness. Anyway, Draco, you’re more important –”

“Than the Chosen One’s word?” Draco said, pointedly.

“Well, _I_ can testify, and I will,” Hermione said. Ron looked alarmed, whispering something in her ear. “Because it’s the _right_ thing to do, Ronald, whether or not he’s a slimy git,” she replied decisively, and marched out of the infirmary with Ron on her heels.

“Charming,” Draco murmured.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said.

Draco gave him a wry look. “Stop apologising, Potter. Finch-Fletchley did this to me, not you.” He paused, his expression closing. “Unless you mean the magic, of course. I’d like an explanation for that.”

Harry swallowed. “I can’t,” he said. “I’m sorry. I’m not doing it on purpose, I promise.”

Draco shook his head, obviously unconvinced, and Harry couldn’t help but remember the way he had stiffened when Madam Pomfrey had told them her theory. The way he’d leaned forward unconsciously, as if trying to break Harry’s hold. Harry hadn’t let him; he’d just tightened his arms until Draco was caught up in the conversation again, but it had left him feeling hollow.

He didn’t want to be the enemy anymore. Draco had come to Harry for comfort when he’d killed that bird; that was a huge step, surely. One that indicated that Draco might finally be on the verge of trusting him enough to accept his offer of protection. And now _this_. It was terrible timing, but he couldn’t deny that Madam Pomfrey was right. He’d seen how terrified Draco had been, under all that anger, at the way his scars had disappeared overnight. How raw and vulnerable he’d been after that orgasm under the Quidditch stands.

Just – _Merlin_ , it was going to be so hard, not touching him. Kissing him. And time was running out. End of term was just four weeks away. If this set them back…

“I’m sorry,” he said, again. “You know I’m here for you, right? I might not be able to do anything about everything else, but I’m not leaving you to face this trial alone. I’ll talk to Professor McGonagall.”

Draco nodded slowly.

Harry walked him out to his friends. Pansy’s smile practically lit up the hallway, and she flung herself into Draco’s arms, wrapping herself around him as if she could protect him by the power of her embrace alone.

Harry understood the impulse. He didn’t stay for the inevitable questions, afraid of the blame in Pansy's eyes when she learned why they were there.

He made his way to Professor McGonagall’s office, instead, and knocked.

“ _What_?” a harassed voice snapped from inside.

He opened the door to find McGonagall sitting behind her desk, the wastepaper basket next to her almost hidden under a mountain of screwed up parchment. Harry recognised the permission slips that had been handed out for attendance at the trial.

She looked up at him over the pile still to be assessed on her desk, and sighed. “Mr Potter.”

“Professor.”

“The Headmaster has already informed me that you will be speaking on Mr Finch-Fletchley’s behalf,” she said. “He’s arranged it all with the defence. You have permission to be there on the day they call you.”

“Thank you, professor,” Harry said, politely. “But Draco has to be there every day, and it’s honestly the last thing he needs right now. He was the one who was attacked, and yet all anyone can talk about is how his father’s in prison for supporting Voldemort, and how Justin’s mum and sister were killed by Death Eaters. They don’t care about Draco. I – I need to be there for him.”

She stared at him, clearly conflicted. “What really happened to my Time-Turner, Potter?” she said, at last.

Harry didn’t flinch. In a way, he was glad she hadn’t believed his story. “It’s safe. I mean, I didn’t break it. I lent it to Draco so he could keep up with his homework, and get a proper night’s sleep.”

McGonagall removed her glasses, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Mr Potter, you have been accusing Mr Malfoy all year of being behind the necklace and the poisoned mead – which almost _killed_ Mr Weasley, I might add – not to mention trying to fulfil some kind of task allegedly assigned to him by You-Know-Who. And yet now you claim to be in love with him, and give him my Time-Turner, which would surely only aid him in such a task, and then _lie_ to me about it – twice! For heaven’s sake, _why_?”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said. He wanted to tell her the truth, but he couldn’t. She was too close to Dumbledore. “It’s not as if I’ve become suddenly blind to his flaws. I haven’t. But he’s not his father. He’s just a teenager caught up on the wrong side of the war, trying to protect the people he cares about. He deserves someone who cares about _him_.”

McGonagall studied him, frowning. “Very well, Mr Potter,” she said. “You are excused from classes for the length of the trial. You will have to catch up on all of the work you miss on your own time, and keep up with the homework, or I will rescind my permission.”

“Yes, professor,” Harry said. “Thank you.”

“I will hold you solely responsible for the fate of my Time-Turner, do you understand?”

Harry nodded.

“Good,” she said. “Be careful, Potter. You will no doubt find yourself sorely provoked over the next few days. For your sake, and Mr Malfoy’s, do try not to lose your temper, or I suspect you will find it splashed across the front page of every paper from the Daily Prophet to Madam’s Weekly.”

~*~

It wasn’t until the following morning that Harry understood exactly what she meant.

They arrived at the Ministry of Magic to find what seemed like every single reporter in the country swarming the Atrium. And that was just the reporters. Apparently half of the wizarding population had turned out as well.

“Bloody hell,” Harry whispered, moving closer to Draco.

Draco didn’t look in the least bothered by the hysteria surrounding them. He was limping a bit, and the circles under his eyes were a little more pronounced than usual; deliberately, Harry was sure. Draco had never limped a day in his life. But his chin was tilted up at that endearingly arrogant angle, and he walked like he _belonged_. Like this was his world, and he was master of all he surveyed.

Harry, who had seen Draco white-faced and nervous before their Portkey from Hogsmeade only minutes before, was a little envious. To be able to put on a front like that, like nothing touched him, even when he was facing down a hostile crowd who reviled him for being his father’s son… that was seriously impressive.

They handed their wands over to be registered, and Harry fumbled his through his sweaty fingers.

“Pull yourself together, Potter,” Draco murmured.

Harry grimaced, pocketing his wand again. They had an intimidating four-Auror escort, but even those broad shoulders, drawn wands, and scarlet robes couldn’t hold the crowd back today.

There were eight of them attending the trial from Hogwarts. Professor Flitwick, who had left Snape in charge of his one class of the day – _poor firsties_ , Harry thought – Hannah Abbott, Ernie Macmillan, and two other Hufflepuff boys Harry assumed were friends of Justin’s. Snape had also given permission for Pansy Parkinson to accompany them, to support Draco. Ernie and the older boy were giving them the occasional dirty look, but Pansy appeared just as oblivious to it as Draco was.

“This way!” Flitwick squeaked. “Follow the Aurors! Come on, keep up!”

The trial was being held in one of the newer courtrooms on level nine, and they walked down the hallway that led to the Department of Mysteries. Harry avoided looking at the door at the very end, his heart thumping unpleasantly. They made a right, and the hallway widened and became brighter, with carpet on the floors and enchanted windows that provided a view of a park somewhere in London. It was a beautiful morning; completely at odds with the mood inside the Ministry.

The Aurors ushered them through an enormous door into a courtroom that was easily three times the size of the one Harry had been tried in. There were already hundreds of people crammed into every bench and up the aisles.

Flitwick led the way down to the very front, pushing through the crowd to a small space on the front row, opposite the panel of judges. Next to them was a man with curly brown hair and blue eyes. Justin’s father, Harry surmised. Their escorts took up places at either end, and Harry looked up at the panel again.

Behind it sat the rows of Wizengamot members in their plum-coloured robes, and off to one side, Percy Weasley sat in the scribe’s chair, again. Harry ignored him, far more interested in the judges. There were three seats, just like Harry’s trial, but only two were occupied – one by Minister Scrimgeour, and the other by a thin man with an unusually large forehead and long black hair that reminded Harry unpleasantly of Snape.

“The new Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement,” Flitwick told them, in a loud whisper. “Very honourable man, Pius Thicknesse. I’m sure he’ll be fair.”

The third seat was empty.

“Bring in the defendant,” Scrimgeour said, raising his voice to be heard over the crowd.

The room fell silent instantly. All eyes turned toward a small door opposite the Wizengamot.

Harry tensed as it opened, and two Aurors walked through, escorting a boy who seemed dwarfed by the huge courtroom. His shoulders were hunched, his head down, and he shuffled in with his hands and legs shackled by thick iron chains. “Merlin,” Harry said, his breath catching in his throat.

The courtroom erupted in outraged shouts. Justin’s father jumped to his feet, shaking his fist at the judges.

Scrimgeour looked discomfited. “Release him!” he snapped, irritably.

The Aurors hurried to obey, guiding Justin to the seat in the middle of the room. Justin looked up at the crowd, his eyes clear and his jaw set in determination. He was clean, his robes well-pressed, and he’d obviously been well-fed and cared for during his incarceration.

Harry relaxed.

“Oh, I _do_ apologise,” said a high, childish voice, and Harry felt himself tense all over again. “Forgive me – I do so _hate_ running late –”

_But you couldn’t resist making an entrance_ , Harry thought savagely, as a short, squat woman in a bright pink cardigan hurried in through the main entrance. She paused, smiling, as every eye in the courtroom turned to her.

“Umbridge,” Hannah Abbott said, in a tone of loathing.

~*~

Harry found himself rubbing his thumb over the back of his left hand compulsively, as Scrimgeour read out the charges. Dolores Umbridge, newly reinstated as the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister, sat up on the panel like the great, ugly toad she was, horrible velvet bow perched precariously on top of her head. He could barely hear a word anyone was saying; all he could see was _her_. Sitting there like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t tortured Harry for the better part of his fifth year.

“Harry,” Draco murmured, stilling his hand.

“Sorry,” Harry said. But then Umbridge interrupted the proceedings with a fake little cough and a “ _hem hem_ ,” and he wrenched his hand from Draco’s grip and dug his fingernails into the scar Umbridge had left on his hand.

“Merlin, Potter!” Draco said in a furious undertone.

“I’m fine,” Harry gritted out.

“You are not fine,” Draco hissed. “What in the seven hells is _wrong_ with you?”

Harry shot him a venomous look. “You know what. That woman made my life a living hell last year. Made me hate being at Hogwarts, the only home I’ve ever had. And you were on her _squad_.”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “So? You’re going to give her the satisfaction of knowing she won? That even now, the mere fact of her presence turns you into a gibbering fool with a penchant for self-harm?”

Harry glanced down at his hand, and hastily let go. There was blood under his fingernails.

“ _Shh_ ,” Hannah whispered.

Draco took Harry’s hand in his, letting his wand peek out of his sleeve. He murmured a healing spell that closed the four deep, half-moon wounds over.

“Draco!” Harry said, looked around furtively. “Underage magic...”

“They won’t detect it, not in this lot,” Draco assured him, examining Harry’s hand closely. Harry wanted to pull away, especially when Draco made a low growl in his throat, and jerked his head up to stare at Harry. “Blood Quill?”

“S’pose you saw a lot of it, being one of her favourites and all,” Harry said, bitterly.

“No,” Draco said, ignoring his tone. He smoothed his finger over the rippled skin. “I didn’t know she had one. My father punished me with a Blood Quill, once. Not to the point of scarring, though.”

Harry’s mouth dropped open, something dark and ugly and furious filling his chest. “Your _father_?”

“ _Shh_ ,” Hannah whispered again, insistently.

Apparently Umbridge had finished her little speech, and was settling back in her seat. Most of her audience’s eyes had glazed over, but she looked curiously content. Harry wondered apprehensively what she had to be so pleased about. Then she looked directly at him, and her smile widened.

“Don’t respond,” Draco said, out of the corner of his mouth. “Don’t even blink. Don’t let her win.”

Harry felt his jaw flex, but he managed to keep his expression bland until she turned away with a little frown. “Thanks,” he said, gratefully.

Draco didn’t reply, but his hand tightened around Harry’s. He didn’t let go for the rest of the day.

~*~

The trial recessed at four-thirty that afternoon, by which time Harry was almost falling asleep on the bench. So far, nothing much seemed to have happened; it was all boring legalese, precedents and pleas (“not guilty,” Justin had said clearly, his eyes on his father, who teared up and nodded vigorously – the only interesting bit in the entire day) and calls for a mistrial on the basis of a legal technicality that Harry couldn’t make heads nor tails of, but which took an agonisingly long time to explain before being rejected.

Apparently, most of the reporters and general public felt much the same way. Justin was led out of one door, minus his chains this time, and then Harry and the others joined the yawning, shuffling crowd filing out of the other.

“What was all that about?” Harry said, when they were all crammed into a lift. The Aurors had escorted them there, and then left, apparently satisfied that they weren’t going to be accosted by the disenchanted crowd.

Flitwick chuckled at him. “Dumbledore’s doing. He’s good friends with Madam Primrose, for the defence. She agreed to talk to the Minister and see about making today as boring as possible, to get rid of most of the thrill-seekers.”

“Thank Morgana,” Pansy said, looking disgusted. “It was like a bloody circus in there. Like no one has anything better to do than to gawk at two _schoolboys_.”

“Can we see Justin, professor?” one of the other boys asked. He was the youngest of the three; Bobby Baskin, a second-year Hufflepuff.

Flitwick nodded, smiling. “We’re on our way there now, my dear boy. The Headmaster obtained visiting rights for the four of you, for fifteen minutes of every day of the trial. He thought it might do young Mr Finch-Fletchley some good.”

Harry swallowed. _Four_. Hannah, Ernie, Bobby and the other boy. Dumbledore hadn’t included him in the group to see Justin. Not that he minded. He could still hear his ex-boyfriend’s words ringing in his head at unwary moments, raking down his spine like sharpened claws. Still, there was part of him that wished things were different.

“Where is he being held?” Hannah asked.

“Level two. The Aurors have a set of cells near their office, which they use for prisoners who need a greater level of protection. Most often high profile cases, like Mr Finch-Fletchley, or when the prisoner is too dangerous to be kept in the basement cells. I assure you, he’s being kept comfortable, and safe.”

The lift opened, and a voice announced, ‘Level two, Department of Magical Law Enforcement’.

Kingsley Shacklebolt strode forward as they stepped off the lift, a broad grin splitting his face. “Filius! Good to see you! I trust the trial went as planned?”

Flitwick winked, smiling broadly. “I believe so.”

“Very good, very good,” Kingsley said jovially. “Hello, Harry! Hello, everyone! Who’s here to see Justin?”

Bobby raised his hand shyly, and Kingsley slung a friendly arm around the boy’s shoulders. Flitwick ushered the others after them, leaving Harry, Draco and Pansy alone.

Harry edged closer to Draco, tucking his hand into the other boy’s. “All right?”

Draco gave him a wry glance. “Not especially. You?”

“No,” Harry sighed, leaning into him. He pressed a kiss to Draco’s jaw, and Draco turned towards him, seeking.

“Potter,” Pansy said, sharply.

Harry jumped. His face went hot, and he pulled his hand out of Draco’s. Draco’s hand rose, as if he was going to reach out to him, and then he dropped it to his side again, frowning. “Sorry,” Harry said. “I forgot –”

“You _forgot_ ,” Pansy said, scathingly. She looked between them. “I let you hold hands, all day. I didn’t say anything, even though Madam Pomfrey was clear about her suspicions. What are you _thinking_ , Draco? And you, Potter – are you _trying_ to kill him?”

“Of course not,” Harry said, taken aback. “Madam Pomfrey didn’t say anything about killing him! It’s just magic –”

Draco shook his head. “There’s no ‘just’ about magic,” he said, quietly. “There are some who say it is a wizard’s soul. To steal it from another is an act so vile, so unthinkable, that there has never been a suitable sentence for it laid down in the law. Living, _existing_ without it… you can’t even comprehend the horror of such a fate. It wouldn’t even be living.”

Harry stared at him. “I grew up without magic. It’s not that bad.”

“But your magic was still there, even if you weren’t aware of it,” Pansy pointed out. “You might have a better idea than us how it is to live without being able to perform magic, but you can’t possibly imagine what it would be like to have it suddenly _stripped_ out of you.” She shuddered visibly. “No one could.”

Harry bit his lip. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m not doing it deliberately. You know that, right, Draco? I wouldn’t. I – I’d rather die than hurt you like that.”

Draco sighed. “Would you?”

“Of course,” Harry said, quickly. “I –”

“You,” Draco interrupted, “are entirely too cavalier with declarations of throwing away your life. You’ve already told me you intend to die taking the Dark Lord down, remember?”

“I don’t _intend_ to die,” Harry retorted, and Draco scoffed. “I don’t want to,” he amended. “You know that.”

“But you will, in true, stupidly noble Gryffindor fashion, if it’s to fulfil the prophecy,” Draco said. “Isn’t that right?”

Harry frowned. “The prophecy is about saving the whole world,” he said, slowly. “So, yes, if that was the only way.”

“And what if,” Draco said, holding his gaze, “I said I want you to live?”

Harry's breath caught in his throat. He knew Draco didn’t really mean it. He _knew_ that. But somehow, it struck a chord. The idea of his life being more important to someone than killing Voldemort…

No. It was wrong. So wrong.

Still, his heart was beating too quickly, and he wondered, suddenly, if this was the reason Dumbledore was so set against him pursuing a relationship with Draco. If it had very little to do with Draco’s loyalties, after all, and everything to do with finding someone worth living for.

Harry wasn’t much of a chess player, but he’d played enough with Ron to know that only the King truly mattered, and every other piece on the board could be sacrificed, if necessary, to protect it. But what if he wasn’t the King? What if the Chosen One was just a bishop; albeit a bishop with the ultimate duty of taking down the other King, just like in that game they’d played in first year? A bishop who was truly in love – with anyone, Harry thought; Light or Dark, King or pawn – might not be quite as willing to sacrifice himself to ensure the other side’s defeat.

_You are getting_ bloody _paranoid,_ Harry told himself sternly. Besides, he wasn’t in love. It was irrelevant.

“Then I – I’d try, for you,” he said.

“You’d give me your word?” Draco said, and Harry was flushed and speechless all over again. It took him a moment to realise he was smiling; smiling so hard his cheeks hurt.

“Okay,” he said. “Yeah. I promise.”

Draco shook his head, leaning forward to kiss his smile away.

“Potter!” Pansy all but screeched.

Harry jerked back guiltily.

“I kissed _him_ , Pans –” Draco started, irritably.

“And clearly he’s not a _eunuch_ ,” Pansy said, acerbically, “so what in the seven hells – Potter, what the _fuck_ do you think –?”

Harry had taken a risk, slipping an arm back around Draco’s waist. “I love him, Pansy,” he said. He felt the air leave Draco’s lungs in a soft whoosh of surprise. “I don’t know why my magic is acting up, I don’t know what it’s doing, but I promise you that I won’t let it hurt him. I won’t let it take his magic. But I’m also not going to let it keep us apart. You’re right, his life is worth more than that. And… so is mine.”

A smile flickered across Draco’s face.

Pansy’s eyes softened, just a little. “All right,” she said. “But I’m watching you, Potter. And,” flicking her wand just like Madam Pomfrey had, shoving them apart, “sex is still off the table, understood? Put it back in your pants. And make sure it _stays_ there.”

~*~

Draco disappeared after dinner, taking Vince with him. Greg, unfortunately, had failed an assignment and had been forced to spend the evening doing it over. Pansy guided him through the theory absently. She had never quite appreciated the extent of Draco’s patience until he could no longer tutor the two boys himself; she did it for him now with good grace, because it was one of the few ways she could help him, but it was frustrating and time-consuming.

“I need to talk to you, Pans.”

She startled, whirling. “Merlin, Mordred and Morgana!” she gasped. “Where did _you_ come from?”

Draco frowned at her. Which translated as _you’re making a scene, Parkinson_. She took a deep breath, composing herself. Fortunately, Greg was the only one in the den; the other boys were in their rooms. Greg just looked up, grunted a welcome, and went back to chewing his quill.

Draco gestured for her to follow him back into his room. “I just got back,” he explained.

“I would have seen you,” she said, firmly. “There’s no way you came through the door.” She scowled. “Tell me it wasn’t Potter. I _swear_ if he –”

“It wasn’t,” he assured her. “Well, it was, but not in the way you’re thinking.” He pulled a silver chain over his head, and held it out.

Pansy gaped. A Time-Turner. She stared at him, at the dark circles under his eyes, and horror almost overwhelmed her. When he was already so exhausted he was overdosing on a combination of potions that could potentially destroy his shields, leaving him open and vulnerable to the Dark Lord, to _Dumbledore_ …

“Rumour had it these were all destroyed in the Ministry last year,” she said, keeping her voice steady with an effort. “By Potter.”

“It was McGonagall’s,” Draco explained. “Potter borrowed it from her, and then lied to their faces about it; McGonagall, Dumbledore, and Snape. He said he broke it. They didn’t know whether to believe him or not, but he said it with a straight face, Pansy. Tears in his eyes. Genuine contrition. I’m not sure I would’ve seen through it.”

Pansy frowned. “You said you were sure you _could_ see through him.”

“Exactly,” he said, ominously. “He told me he could’ve been Sorted into Slytherin, back in first year. Apparently the Hat gave him the option, and he chose Gryffindor. He’s a snake in the guise of a lion, and I didn’t see it until it was too late.”

“Too late?” Pansy echoed, her heart sinking. “Too late for what?”

Draco paced over to the fireplace, staring down into the flames. “He loves me, Pansy. Or so he says. And I’m beginning to believe it.”

“Potter’s motivations are immaterial,” Pansy said, sharply. “Your choice is the same, either way. He's offered you his protection. Use him to your advantage, whatever that might be, or don’t. Love has nothing to do with it.”

“Don’t you think I know that?”

“Well, you’re not acting like it!” Pansy retorted. “If he can lie to you, you can’t even be sure he doesn’t know _exactly_ what it is his magic’s doing to you. He could be using you. You have no idea what he really wants –”

“He wants to save me,” Draco said, simply. “And, of course, he wants to fuck me.”

"Oh, that’s lovely,” Pansy snapped. “He could be _stealing your magic_ whenever he fucks you, in case you’ve forgotten!”

Draco shrugged. “You didn’t see him in the aftermath, each time. It frightens him, Pans, whatever it is. I want to trust him.”

“So trust him!” Pansy bit out, frustrated. “Trust him as far as you need to, and no further. And on no account fall in _love_ with him, for Morgana’s sake!”

Draco frowned at her. “I didn’t say anything about falling in love.”

“No?” she demanded. “Why is it too late, then? You forget, I know you, Draco.”

Draco sighed, carding a hand through his hair. “I didn’t choose this. Potter is the Dark Lord’s mortal enemy. There’s a fucking _prophecy_ binding them together. The Dark Lord will not rest until Potter is dead. You think I _want_ to fall in love with the walking dead?”

“I think it won’t matter soon, one way or the other,” Pansy said, darkly. “You’ll be dead along with him if you don’t find some way to justify your relationship to the Dark Lord, and soon.”

Draco flinched. “I know,” he said. “He’s bound to have heard by now. It’s all over the school. I suppose I should be grateful for the trial; it’s the only reason it’s not plastered over the front page of every bloody paper right now. I should get Madam Rosmerta another letter.”

“Write it, and I’ll take it tomorrow,” Pansy offered, letting her indignation go for the moment. She never could stay angry with Draco for long. Not even when he was deliberately sabotaging his future. It was all her fault, anyway.

Draco nodded, looking weary. Far too weary for seven o’clock in the evening, and Pansy remembered the Time-Turner.

“How far back have you come?” she asked, suspiciously. “How long have you been awake?”

“Six, tomorrow morning,” he said, and yawned. “Do we have much homework?”

“No, thank Merlin. Daphne copied down our notes for the day. We have another assignment from Professor Snape, but you and I have a week’s extension because of the trial. There’s some reading for Transfiguration, but they re-potted the Dittany again in Herbology, so there’s no homework for that, at least.”

“What did Daphne want in return?”

“You let me worry about that,” Pansy told him. “You need to sleep, Draco.”

“I will,” he agreed. “I’ll do the reading, and make a start on our DADA assignment. I’ll write that letter and still be in bed by ten, at the latest.” He moved across to his trunk, and rummaged through it.

“Draco...” Pansy put out a hand to stop him, but he ignored her. His hands shook as he raised a familiar blue vial to his lips. “Draco, _please_ ,” she begged, close to tears. Her best friend was slipping away from her, and there was nothing she could do. He had lost his way, possibly even his heart, and he was surrounded by danger on all sides.

“Ten o’clock,” he said, taking three long swallows. Three times the normal dosage. “I promise.”


	18. Chapter 18

**CHAPTER NINE**

**TAKING A STAND**

_Dance, my little puppets – dance for me_  
 _Dance, my little puppets,_  
 _Truth is a lie, can’t you see?_  
~ Sandy N

Part One

When they arrived at the Ministry of Magic for the second day of the trial, it was to find a much quieter courtroom. There were still half-a-dozen reporters, and the benches were full, but it was nothing at all like the crowds of the day before.

“Thank Merlin,” Pansy said, in relief.

“Thank Dumbledore,” Hermione corrected her.

Harry ignored them. They’d only just arrived, and already Draco was slipping down on the bench, his eyes closing. Harry nudged him gently with his elbow, and Draco startled awake.

“Harry?” he said, in confusion.

Harry felt something deep in his chest tighten. “It’s okay, sweetheart,” he said.

Draco just blinked at him, eyes oddly vulnerable, and Harry wanted to take him in his arms and kiss and kiss and _kiss_ him until he fell asleep. Kiss, and bite, and suck until those perfect pureblood lips were red and raw and swollen, and Draco was boneless under him, completely surrendered to his embrace. Safe, _protected_.

He didn’t understand it. It had never been like this with Justin. This – this intense desire, this _need_ to be with him, in every possible way. To protect him. And somehow it was that much worse, now they were forbidden from intimate contact.

“The trial’s about to start,” Hermione whispered in his ear. She was almost vibrating with anxiety.

On his other side, Draco leaned into his shoulder, yawning. Harry sighed. “It’ll be all right,” he murmured, to both of them.

“Bring in the defendant,” Scrimgeour said.

The crowd fell silent in anticipation. Harry glanced up at the panel of judges, and then just as quickly away, toward the entrance the Aurors were bringing Justin in.

“Mr Justin Finch-Fletchley,” the Minister said, as Justin took a seat on the bench next to his father, “you have pleaded not guilty to the charges of aggravated assault and battery, attempted murder, and the use of an Unforgivable. Would the prosecution please present your first witness?”

Auror Robards stood.

“The new Head of the Auror Office,” Hermione whispered, urgently. “Gawain Robards. He replaced Scrimgeour when he stepped into the Minister’s office. Apparently he has a background in wizarding law. I shouldn’t have worried – if he’s in charge of the prosecution, maybe I should –”

Harry smiled at her. “You’ll be fine _,_ Hermione.”

“We call Miss Hermione Granger,” Robards said.

Harry squeezed her arm. She smiled tremulously, standing.

Robards guided her over to the witness chair in the middle of the room, and she perched on the edge nervously. “If you would state your name and relationship to the defendant for the court, please.”

“Hermione Jean Granger,” she said, looking up at the Wizengamot. Harry remembered how forbidding they’d looked to him, last year, with their matching plum robes and severe faces, and he sympathised with the way her voice shook a little. “I go to school with Justin, and Mal – Draco Malfoy.”

“And you were present in Hogsmeade at the time of the alleged attack?”

“Alleged?” Hermione straightened, frowning. “I was in The Three Broomsticks when Justin attacked Malfoy, yes. I saw the whole thing. There’s nothing alleged about it.”

Robards smiled indulgently. “Nothing has been proved yet, Miss Granger. That’s our job.” The spectators tittered, and Hermione blushed. “Would you describe what happened, please?”

She cleared her throat, and looked up at Harry. He nodded supportively, trying to say not to listen to the crowd with his eyes. They were fickle; their opinions swayed with the tide of popular opinion, far too often guided by the palatable lies printed in the newspapers. The legend of the Boy Who Lived was proof of that.

She lifted her chin. “I was having a butterbeer with friends. Justin was with another group, two tables over. The Three Broomsticks was really crowded, but everyone noticed when the two Ministry officials walked into the pub.”

“Graham Holland and Miles Whittaker,” Robards agreed. “Both highly respected members of the Hit Wizard Squad, and close friends of the defendant’s father, Mr David Finch.” He gestured for Hermione to continue.

“They pulled Justin aside and gave him the news that – well, that his mother and sister had been killed, although of course we didn’t know that at the time –”

Harry glanced at Justin. His head was down, shoulders hunched, and Harry's heart ached for him. But then Draco shifted against his side, and Harry remembered white-blond hair soaked with blood, his leg severed to the bone. The way he’d curled in agony against the aftershocks of the Cruciatus Curse. His mouth firmed. “Why are you so tired?” he whispered.

Draco tilted his head towards him. “Why’d you think, Potter?” he said, gently sarcastic.

“… killed by Death Eaters,” Robards was saying, and an ugly ripple went through the courtroom. Harry looked up.

“Yes,” Hermione confirmed.

“And how did you feel about that?” Robards asked. “Given that you, yourself, are Muggleborn? That you, or your family, might be next?”

Hermione looked taken aback. “I – terrified,” she said.

Another ripple went through the courtroom. Robards nodded. “Thank you, Miss Granger. I know that must have been difficult for you. Now, will you tell us what happened next?”

“Justin ran out,” Hermione said. “And then, less than a minute later, Draco Malfoy walked in. Justin –”

“What was Mr Malfoy doing?” Robards interrupted.

Harry felt Draco stiffen next to him. In the witness chair, Hermione blinked. “Sorry?”

“What was Mr Malfoy doing? Was he alone? With friends? Was he carrying anything? Did he stop to talk to anyone? Did he appear angry? Or pleased?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Answer the question, Miss Granger,” Scrimgeour interposed, his thin eyebrows drawing together.

“He was alone,” she said crossly, not at all intimidated by the Minister for Magic asking her a direct question. Harry smiled. “He was heading for the bar. Probably to get a drink, like everyone else. He had… a bag in his hand, I think. And he looked happy, I suppose.” She glanced over at Harry, a question in her eyes. Harry hesitated, and then nodded. “He was on a date, you see. With Harry Potter.”

Shock slammed through the courtroom. Voices rose in a crescendo, people straining their necks to get a look down at the bench where Harry and Draco sat. Justin was scowling, and Umbridge’s face twisted sourly.

Harry smiled at her with his teeth.

“Bloody hell, Potter,” Draco hissed. “Was that entirely necessary?”

Harry glanced at him in surprise. Draco was sitting quite still, head held high, but Harry knew him well enough by now to be to see the fear in his eyes. “But everyone at school knows,” he whispered, suddenly worried.

He was so used to his life being under constant scrutiny, it honestly hadn’t occurred to him that Draco might not want their budding relationship exposed to the public eye. The only real fear he had was that the Weasleys might be angry that he was courting Draco Malfoy instead of Ginny. But he wouldn’t see them until the end of term, and by then, he would be able to tell them the truth.

Draco didn’t have that long.

“It’s fine,” Draco said, repressively.

“Draco –”

“It’s _fine_.”

It wasn’t fine, even Harry could see that. But Scrimgeour was shouting for order, and the courtroom quietened. He was forced to squeeze Draco’s hand in apology and hope it would be enough.

“Miss Granger, I would ask that you keep your replies only to what is relevant to the trial, please,” Scrimgeour said, severely.

Harry wanted to ask how, exactly, what Draco had been doing in The Three Broomsticks was at all relevant to the trial, but the reporters were eagerly scribbling in their notebooks, and Hermione was up in arms, bristling in their defence. Harry suspected she knew where Robards was going with this line of questioning, and she clearly didn’t like it. “Actually, it _is_ relevant, Minister,” she said. “Justin and Harry dated too, for a month earlier this year.”

The courtroom erupted for the second time, and Robards looked furious.

Harry frowned. If even the prosecutor was against them...

“Are you implying that there is some sort of ‘love triangle’ between Mr Malfoy, Mr Finch-Fletchley, and _Harry Potter_?” Robards said, incredulously.

“No-o,” Hermione said, uncertainly. “I just –”

“Miss Granger,” Robards said. “You seem like a highly intelligent young woman, despite your youth. Do you honestly believe jealousy would play the greater role in this alleged attack, when the defendant had just suffered the loss of his mother and young sister?”

“No, sir,” Hermione said, quietly. “I was just suggesting it might have been the tipping factor, perhaps…”

“If it was your mother who had been murdered, do you think you would have been capable of thinking about anything else?”

“I –” Hermione sighed. “Probably not.”

Robards looked satisfied. “If you would tell the court, then, in your own words, what you saw next.”

Hermione nodded, and recounted simply what Justin had done. Harry’s hand tightened around Draco’s as she described the attack, ugly memories crowding back into his mind.

“You’re going to sleep tonight, Draco,” he said, as the court recessed for a short break. Draco raised an eyebrow at him, but the effect was rather ruined by another yawn. “You’re exhausted. Aren’t you using the Time-Turner?” Draco didn’t reply, and he sighed. “You are. To work.”

“I don’t have a choice, Potter.”

“Well, I do,” Harry said, firmly. “And I’m telling you, you’re _going_ to get a proper night’s sleep tonight.”

Draco smiled slightly. “Oh, really? And how, exactly, do you propose to make me?”

Harry shrugged, and refused to say anymore.

~*~

After the recess, the defence was called to cross-examine.

Hermione took her seat again, jaw set in determination. Head Auror Robards had disappointed her; he’d glossed completely over the use of the Cruciatus Curse, and focused almost entirely on the chaos afterwards, spending more time asking about Justin’s obvious grief and distress than the attack itself. She was going to make sure they _heard_ her this time.

“Miss Granger,” Madam Primrose said, standing. “You claim you saw Justin leave, and then return through the front entrance less than a minute later. He was following Draco Malfoy?”

“Yes,” Hermione said. “He had his wand out. He looked angry.”

“And did Malfoy have _his_ wand out?”

Hermione frowned. “Uh. I don’t think so? No.”

Pius Thicknesse leaned forward in his chair. “Miss Granger, if you cannot recall something, just tell us so. You are here to provide testimony of what you _saw_ , only. Kindly don’t make assumptions.”

“Sorry, sir,” Hermione said, flustered and embarrassed. “I can’t recall.”

“And you didn’t see or hear Justin during the time he was outside?” Madam Primrose continued.

“No, ma’am.”

“Is it possible, then, that Draco Malfoy had a conversation with the defendant before entering The Three Broomsticks? In which he provoked the defendant? Even threatened him?”

“Threatened?” Hermione stared at her.

“I assume you know _who_ Draco Malfoy’s father is?”

Hermione scowled. That was the root of the issue, of course. She just hadn’t believed they would be so blatant about it. “Lucius Malfoy, yes,” she agreed, flatly.

“A known and convicted Death Eater,” Madam Primrose informed the spectators.

As if every one of them hadn’t eagerly followed the trial last year, Hermione thought. “My father’s a dentist,” she said. “That doesn’t mean I’m one, or ever will be.”

“Very true, my dear,” Madam Primrose acknowledged, smiling. “However, I would wager that your father is a good man. That he taught you right from wrong; instilled in you values like compassion, respect for life, and concern for others?”

“Yes, of course,” Hermione said.

“And do you think Draco Malfoy, son of a Death Eater and the scion of a line that has been Dark for _centuries_ , shares those values?”

Hermione glanced at Malfoy. He was still as a statue, face carefully blank. Harry, on the other hand, looked furious. She willed him not to lose his temper as she turned back to face Madam Primrose. “I think everyone has the capacity to learn care and compassion for others, even the children of Death Eaters,” she said. “I think maybe we’d be surprised if we gave them a chance.”

“Clearly you are an exceptional young lady, Miss Granger,” Madam Primrose said, gently. “Would that there were more like you. Unfortunately, the wizarding world is at war, and we cannot afford such naiveté right now. The Death Eaters do not know compassion, or respect for life.”

“But –”

“Was there time, Miss Granger, for Draco Malfoy to have provoked, or even threatened the defendant, before they entered the establishment?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione said, annoyed. She looked up at the judges. “What I do know is that Malfoy was with Harry behind The Three Broomsticks, just before the attack.”

She watched as they absorbed that. “Is that true, Mr Potter?” Scrimgeour asked.

“Yes!” Harry said instantly, blurting it out as if it had been boiling up inside him for several minutes. “We were together right up until he went inside!”

Madam Primrose frowned. “So you saw the defendant enter, too?”

“I –” Harry said, and then stopped. “No,” he said.

Madam Primrose turned back to Hermione. “And you said the defendant followed Mr Malfoy directly into The Three Broomsticks?”

“There was only a few seconds between them,” Hermione agreed, reluctantly.

“Did you actually see Mr Malfoy cross the threshold, Mr Potter?” Madam Primrose asked.

He glared at her. “No. But he was only a few feet away from the door. I must’ve turned away just as Justin came up behind us.”

“But you didn’t see him yourself,” Madam Primrose said, in satisfaction. “Which indicates that there was a period of time during which Mr Malfoy was unobserved, and could have provoked the defendant.”

“Draco is not the one on trial here!” Harry protested.

Hermione winced.

“Really, Mr Potter,” Umbridge simpered, leaning forward like a shark sensing bleeding prey. “Have you _no_ respect for this court?”

Hermione braced herself for an outburst, but – “Sorry, ma’am,” Harry said, meekly, and Hermione breathed out in surprise and relief. She realised Malfoy had a hard grip on Harry’s arm.

Well. That was interesting.

“Miss Granger,” Madam Primrose said, drawing her attention back to her. “You claim the defendant cast the Cruciatus Curse, and Malfoy went crashing through a window?”

“Yes,” Hermione said. “He cast it at Malfoy’s _back_ ,” stressing that deliberately so Primrose couldn’t ignore it. Surely it couldn’t just be her who found that contemptible?

“And what was Mr Malfoy doing by the window? You mentioned you thought he was heading towards the bar.”

Hermione hesitated. “Yes. I suppose I must have looked away for a moment.”

“Enough time for Mr Malfoy to completely change direction?” Madam Primrose said, sceptically. “Did you actually _see_ the defendant use this alleged Unforgivable, Miss Granger?”

“Justin had his back to me,” Hermione said, frowning. “So, no. But I heard him say the curse clearly. And he held Malfoy under it for _minutes_ , not seconds _._ I had to get in front of him to stop it.”

“But you didn’t see Mr Malfoy change direction. Clearly your assumption that he was getting a drink was erroneous. And if you didn’t actually see the defendant cast the curse, and you didn’t see Mr Malfoy getting his own wand out, perhaps threatening a far more lethal curse _first_ –”

“This is ridiculous!” Hermione cried. “Justin cast the Cruciatus Curse at his back _._ Malfoy never even had the opportunity to get his wand out, let alone defend himself! And then when I took Justin’s wand from him, he grabbed another wand and cast _Diffindo_ at Malfoy, who was lying on the ground, defenceless and unconscious from being _tortured_ , and being trampled by dozens of panicked students –”

Madam Primrose held up a hand. “You yourself testified earlier that you had turned away when the Severing Curse was cast.”

“Yes, I was trying to help him –”

“So, in fact, you didn’t see the Cruciatus Curse _or_ the Severing Curse being cast?”

Hermione scowled. “I heard both of them, and witnessed the result of each. And the two Hit Wizards saw the whole thing. There were dozens of witnesses. Justin was out of his mind. One of the men had to _physically_ restrain him, even after I took his wand –”

Madam Primrose smiled at her, and Hermione stopped, suddenly unsure. The woman turned to the panel of judges and gave a little bow. “No further questions, Minister.”

~*~

Madam Pomfrey took the stand next, and her testimony was brief and to the point. Neither Robards or Madam Primrose had much to ask her. Primrose, however, made very sure the court knew Madam Pomfrey was ‘just’ a mediwitch, not a Healer, and that Draco bore no scars from the alleged attack.

Draco was furious, though not particularly surprised. The whole trial was a waste of his time. It was clear that his presence wasn’t needed, let alone wanted, and that even the Wizengamot had no interest in seeing a fair trial.

It was like a slap to the face. He knew over two-thirds of the members of the Wizengamot personally. His parents moved in the highest echelons of society, and he’d been attending political functions, balls and charity events for as long as he could remember. Despite the general feeling of mistrust towards Dark wizards, which generally precluded them from positions of authority in the Ministry, his father had been a valued advisor and friend – not to mention financial benefactor – to over half of the Wizengamot members. His mother had befriended the husbands and wives of even more.

And now his father was in Azkaban, his mother was a prisoner in her own home, and all that political favour had come to naught. Their friends and allies in the Wizengamot had wasted no time distancing themselves from the Malfoy family.

He watched their faces, brooding. Not a single man or woman on those vaunted benches would meet his eyes, and he couldn’t help imagining how quickly they would change their tune, in the event the Dark Lord won. How they would bow and scrape, then.

Harry sighed and shifted on the bench next to him, and Draco closed his eyes.

 _Potter_ would never bow and scrape. He would never submit, even if the rest of the world had been brought to heel. Draco knew that now, just as he knew that Harry Potter would have to die for the Dark Lord to claim victory. It was as inevitable as prophecy. Perhaps it _was_ the prophecy.

Draco watched as Madam Pomfrey left the stand, and Scrimgeour concluded the day.

Up in the Auror offices, as they waited for the four visiting with Finch-Fletchley, Kingsley Shacklebolt handed out steaming hot cups of tea. “You did very well, Miss Granger,” he said.

Granger made an odd, growling noise in the back of her throat. “Oh, I am so _angry_ right now! Malfoy, I am so sorry – they twisted _everything_ –”

Draco looked at her in surprise. This was the girl he’d insulted countless times over the years. He’d made her cry, rage, and stamp her feet. She was the only girl who’d ever hit him, full of righteous fury over a hippogriff. And now here she was, _apologising_ to him. “Don’t get your wand in a knot, Granger,” he drawled. “We might not remember what it was like during the first war, but they do. The Aurors, the judges, the Wizengamot… they all have far more sympathy for Finch-Fletchley than they do me. And Mr Finch is a Hit Wizard; doubtless he has a few friends in high places.”

Granger stared at him. “But that’s not fair.”

“I’m afraid an impartial trial is almost impossible at this point,” Shacklebolt said. “People are frightened, Miss Granger, and that fear is growing. Robards lost his wife in the last war, and his only son went missing just last week.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” Pansy sighed.

“His _son_ – but that’s a conflict of interest!” Granger protested.

“Yes,” Shacklebolt agreed. “But Gawain Robards is the best Auror we have, and a fine leader. He is respected by the wizarding public and the Wizengamot alike. Dumbledore petitioned the Minister to have him removed from the prosecution, but I am afraid Scrimgeour is steadfast.”

Draco shook his head. “Potter,” he murmured. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

Harry just nodded, his attention fixed on Shacklebolt. “We can’t let this happen, sir,” he said. “Justin used an Unforgivable! He tortured Draco, tried to _kill_ him –”

“We are doing our best, Harry…”

He left them to it.

~*~

Ten minutes later, Draco was washing his hands when he caught a sudden movement out of the corner of his eye. He reached for his wand, but he was too slow. His head exploded in blinding pain. He cried out, falling to his knees, even as a hand fisted tightly in his hair. “ _What_ –” he gasped, trying to blink past the white light, the dizziness. “Who –?”

“Fernando Cardosa,” a vaguely familiar voice said. Foul breath wafted over his face. “You have some explaining to do, boy.”

Draco tried to think. The name Cardosa was pureblood. He forced down the nausea, and made his eyes focus. The first thing he saw was a sleeve rolled up to the elbow. On the exposed forearm was a Dark Mark. “Let go of me,” he said, “and I will.”

“The way I hear it,” Cardosa said, “the Malfoy heir has a _marked_ proclivity for other boys.” He grabbed Draco between the legs, twisting cruelly. Draco stifled a cry. “Have you betrayed us, Master Malfoy?”

“No!” Draco said, his vision blurring. He gasped as the man twisted again. “There’s a letter; it’s making its way to the Dark Lord right now, with an explanation! I would never betray our lord! Let me go!”

“You’re not going anywhere until I’m satisfied,” Cardosa growled.

Draco forced himself to go limp and submissive; much the same way he surrendered to Harry’s embrace. Except that Harry’s hands had never made his skin crawl, or a scream rise in his throat. He met the cold eyes of his assailant. “You do realise just who it is you’re manhandling, Cardosa?”

Cardosa let go, but he didn’t move far, his other hand still holding Draco’s head back at an awkward angle. “The Malfoy name is mud, boy,” he sneered, unimpressed. “You’ve fallen. Fallen from power within the Ministry, fallen out of favour with the Dark Lord _._ It’s only a matter of time, now. This is punishment for your father’s failure, don’t you see? You will fail –”

“I will _not_ fail!” Draco snapped. “I will complete the task the Dark Lord has assigned me, and I will serve Potter up to him on a silver platter.”

“How?”

Draco bared his teeth. “You’re new to this, aren’t you? That kind of information doesn’t go through _lackeys_.” Cardosa snarled, his hand tightening in Draco’s hair. Draco held his gaze, refusing to be cowed. “You can tell the Dark Lord that my letter is on its way, and I won’t fail him.”

“Not good enough,” Cardosa said. “The Dark Lord demands an explanation, now.”

Draco forced himself to shrug. “Fine. Potter believes I’m a victim. He wants to ‘save’ me. An opportunity like this… I would have to be a fool not to cultivate it. If the Dark Lord wishes to use my position to his advantage, I have Potter practically eating out of my hand. If not, I’ll end it as soon as he gives me the word.”

“How very loyal of you, Master Malfoy,” Cardosa sneered. He grabbed Draco again through his robes, deliberately rough. Draco held still through the assault, refusing to give the thug the satisfaction of seeing him flinch. “Of course, I suppose the perks don’t interest you at all.”

“You think whoring myself out is a perk?” Draco said, curling his lip. “What interests me is our cause. You, on the other hand, seem to be enjoying yourself a great deal more than you should be. Have a fetish for adolescent boys, do you, Cardosa?”

Cardosa snatched his hand away as if he’d been burned. “Fine,” he snarled. “I’ll convey your message to the Dark Lord. And you’d better pray he’s satisfied, or you’ll be seeing me again, and believe me when I say you don’t want that.”

Draco nodded curtly. “Let me up.”

“Oh, no,” Cardosa said, though he let go of Draco’s hair. “We’re not quite done. I have a warning, and a message from your mother.”

Draco felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. “I’m sorry?”

Cardosa smirked, waving his wand. An intricately crafted silver bowl appeared, small and shallow and embellished with the Malfoy crest. _His mother’s Pensieve_. Cardosa used his wand to extract a long, silver stream from his own head, and poured it into the bowl. “Go ahead, Master Malfoy.”

Draco looked at it suspiciously, but the lure of being close to his mother again, even just in memory, was too great to resist. He scrambled to his knees, and with absolutely no regard for his own safety, turned his back on Cardosa to plunge his head into the Pensieve. He felt the familiar falling sensation, and then he was standing in his mother’s bedroom.

It took all of his strength not to run to her. _It’s just a memory,_ he told himself. _Just a memory_...

And that was worse.

“Oh, Merlin,” he said brokenly, his knees giving way beneath him. “ _Mother_.” She was lying crumpled on the bed, as if she’d been discarded there like an unwanted rag-doll, unconscious and bloody.

A low snarl caught his attention, and he scrambled backwards, an involuntary cry of terror rising to his lips. “No,” he whispered. “No-no- _no_.” Greyback was prowling towards his mother, licking his lips with a predatory smile. “No,” Draco said again, horror hoarsening his voice. “No, please Merlin, _no_ –”

Greyback stopped, as if he’d heard him, and he turned.

Draco shivered, backing away.

“Draco Malfoy,” Cardosa said, startling him. He whirled to see the man standing in the doorway. Of course. This was his memory. “Consider this your final warning. Your mother has already paid the price for your failures to date. If you fail our lord again, the lovely Narcissa will be given to the lower ranks to satiate them, and if she survives, well… Yaxley has been a little bored recently.”

Draco’s breath shuddered in his chest. Yaxley was well-known for his perverse pleasures, and his victims never lived more than a week.

“Your father will be murdered in his cell,” Cardosa continued. “And you will be left, entirely alone, to contemplate your family’s shame and the end of the Malfoy line. And then, at the next full moon, you will be fed to Greyback – after our lord is finished with you. He believes you are aware of the Dark Moon Ritual?”

Draco froze, paralysed with horror and confusion.

The Dark Moon Ritual had been _lost_ , centuries ago. Forgotten, erased from the history books. None but his family even knew it had ever existed. There was no possible way the Dark Lord could have learned of it, except – except if his father had sold him out. If he had bartered his only son’s life.

Why? For _what_?

The missing diary. The Dark Lord had been furious over it; blamed Draco’s father for the loss. And yet, mere months later, despite what had seemed to be an irrevocable fall from grace, his father had been granted permission to lead the mission to the Ministry of Magic. That second chance had never made sense to Draco. But if his father had given the Dark Lord information about that lost ritual…

Cardosa smiled widely, as if he could sense Draco’s fear. His eyes were on Greyback. “Do it.”

“What?” Draco whirled, a more immediate panic flooding through him. Greyback bent over her, revealing blood-stained teeth.

Draco screamed.

The memory ended. He was sucked back out of the Pensieve so suddenly his head spun, but he had his wand out and under Cardosa’s chin before the man could react. “What did he do? What did he _DO_?” His voice had risen to a shriek.

“Draco?”

Draco glanced up automatically, and then cursed himself for that moment of inattention. Cardosa spun away, lifting his own wand. Before Draco could blink, Harry was between them, shield up. Draco swore violently under his breath; crude and ugly words that had no place on a Malfoy’s tongue. But the only one who might have been able to tell him his mother’s fate was now at the end of the Chosen One’s wand, and he had no choice but to release him.

“Potter.” He put a hand on Harry’s wand arm, trying to pull it down. “Harry! Let him go.”

“I’m not blind, Draco,” Harry said tensely, and Draco realised that Cardosa’s Mark was still exposed.

“I know,” he said. “But I’m begging you. I’m _begging_ you. Please. Let him go.”

Harry turned his head slightly. “I can’t –”

“Please.”

Harry wavered, clearly torn. Draco cast a _Finite_ at his shield. Harry raised his wand a little higher, but he stood aside with only a quick, worried glance at Draco. Cardosa edged past them and disappeared out of the door.

Draco breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

Harry turned, cupping Draco’s cheeks in his hands. “Are you okay?” he asked, anxiously. “What happened? Are you hurt?”

Draco shook his head. “I’m not hurt,” he said, truthfully. “He just wanted to know why I’m dating you.”

Harry stiffened. “What did you tell him?”

“That I like the way you fuck me,” Draco said, and smiled at Harry’s instant blush. It was endearing, and he relaxed slightly. “That he should mind his own fucking business.”

Harry blinked. “But… wasn’t he here for Voldemort?”

Draco flinched, hard. “Will you stop that, Potter?” he snapped. “ _Yes_ , he was here on behalf of the Dark Lord. I told him I wouldn’t fail.”

“He threatened you.”

“Of course,” Draco said, and his voice broke in spite of his best efforts. His mother’s fate hung on the mercy of a merciless Dark Lord, the self-control of a notoriously impulsive werewolf, the whim of a Death Eater Draco knew nothing about, and his own ability to find a way to let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts and kill Dumbledore; a wizard that not even the Dark Lord himself had ever bested in a duel.

He was trying so hard to hold onto hope, but it was rapidly fading.

“I’m here,” Harry whispered, hugging him hard. He pressed his lips to Draco’s hair, and Draco closed his eyes. “We’ll get through this. I promise.”

~*~

That evening, Seamus recieved an owl from Pansy, asking him to meet her by the Infinity Mirror after dinner.

Hogwarts was following the trial word-for-word in the newspapers, and it had cast a cloud of confusion and upset over the castle. Most students were against Malfoy on principle, as a Slytherin and son of Lucius Malfoy. But Hermione Granger, Harry Potter’s best friend, had spoken for the prosecution. Very few people dared to suggest she might be lying. Which meant Justin had used an Unforgivable, and that was… well, unforgivable.

Seamus, however, was in a good mood. In fact, he could barely restrain himself from skipping up the stairs. The last two days had been the best of his _life_. They weren’t official yet, but Pansy had invited him to join her private tutoring sessions with Professor Flitwick. Not surprisingly, Flitwick was a brilliant tutor, but as much as Seamus appreciated that, he was far more pleased by the implications of the invite.

Pansy was preparing for war, and she wanted _him_ by her side when it came.

“Another letter?” he greeted her, cheerfully.

Pansy turned, and Seamus’ heart sank immediately at her expression. “Seamus,” she said. “I need to tell you something. You won’t like it, and I’m sorry, but I lied to you last time. The letter we delivered to Rosmerta… it was from Draco, to the Dark Lord.”

Seamus stared at her. “What?” he said, faintly. “What did it say?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Draco is far better at curses than I am. If I’d even tried to get a look inside, I’d probably be dead.”

Seamus was disturbed, and yet also a little relieved. “He forced you?”

Pansy shook her head. “No. No, I’m sorry, Seamus. You know how I feel about Draco. He’s my best friend. I would do anything for him.”

Seamus sighed. “He's in trouble, isn’t he? You had to send the letter, or he’d be dead. Same with this one.”

She dragged in a shuddering breath. “I wish that was an exaggeration, but I don't think it is. It was one thing when their relationship was little but rumours among the student population. Now the whole wizarding world knows about it. If the Dark Lord believes Draco’s explanation, he may allow him to continue dating Potter. But if he tells Draco to break it off, we’ll never convince him to defect. Worse, if the Dark Lord is even a _little_ suspicious that Draco has other motives for letting Potter court him… he’ll kill Narcissa. And it’s all my fault. His mother – oh Merlin, his _mother_...”

Seamus watched in dismay as his cool, calm and collected Pansy Parkinson broke down in tears. “ _Pansy_ ,” he said, reaching out to her. He wasn’t sure his touch would be welcome, but she was obviously distraught, so gently, tentatively, he wrapped his arms around her. She buried her face in his robes, her shoulders shaking. “Merlin, Pansy. What happened?”

“A Death Eater attacked Draco in the Ministry today,” she said, her voice muffled. “He showed Draco a Pensieve memory of his mother. They’ve tortured her. We knew it was – but we didn’t _know_. The Death Eater told him – told him if he fails…” She was silent for a moment, struggling to get the words out. “If he kills her – I can’t be responsible for that, Seamus. Not again.”

“You weren’t. You’re _not_ ,” Seamus said, throat tightening. “Your mother gave her _life_ for you, Pansy.”

“I couldn’t save her,” she whispered. “I was useless.”

“You weren’t useless,” Seamus argued. “You-Know-Who didn’t give her a choice. Of course she was going to protect you over herself.”

She lifted her head, eyes burning into his. “Would _you_ let your mother die in your place, Seamus?”

He flinched, thinking about his mam. “It wasn’t your fault. You-Know-Who killed her, not you.”

She shook her head, sob catching in her throat. “I just want her _back_.”

Seamus had no words for that. He held her closer as she cried, wondering if this was the first time she’d really allowed herself to mourn. He wanted to be angry with Malfoy, because she obviously trusted him more than anyone else, and he hadn’t done this for her. But he knew where the blame lay, really.

“I suppose I should be grateful,” she said, pulling back at last. Her eyes and nose were blotchy-red, and she was still the most beautiful person Seamus had ever seen. “My mother’s death was quick, and painless. Narcissa’s won’t be.”

Seamus scowled. “Of course you shouldn’t be grateful. That bastard took your _mother_ from you.”

Pansy nodded, wiping her face carefully. “And he'll pay for it. But right now –”

“Right now, your priority is keeping Malfoy safe.”

Pansy looked relieved. “You’ll come with me to Hogsmeade?”

“I’d follow you to hell and back,” Seamus said.

She shook her head. “I don’t deserve you.”

“You deserve the world, and more,” Seamus countered. “And maybe you have to settle for me right now, but I’ll work on the rest. Just see if I don’t.”

~*~

Professor McGonagall oversaw Harry’s detention that night, handing him a pile of first-year Transfiguration tests to correct. She let him go at nine o’clock exactly, but he waited another hour outside the Room of Requirement before knocking. It opened after several moments, and Draco stood there, shoulders drooping and dark circles under his eyes.

Harry was forcibly reminded of the first night they’d stood here like this. He’d wanted so badly, then, to force his way inside and get a look at what Draco was working on; to stop him once and for all. He’d barely given a thought to Draco’s pain.

“Time for bed,” he said now, gently.

“Potter...”

“No arguments. Come on, you need a good night’s rest.” Harry took his hand and tugged him out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

Draco allowed himself to be guided downstairs without a murmur, but he stopped, frowning, when Harry led him through the dungeons to the Slytherin door. He turned to face him, eyes narrowing. “How is it you know the way to our common room, Potter?”

Harry smiled. “I may have been here before, in second year. Do you remember Crabbe and Goyle questioning you about being the Heir of Slytherin, even though you’d already explained it wasn’t you?”

“More’s the pity,” Draco yawned. “I would have made a good Heir.”

“You’d’ve run screaming from the Heir’s basilisk,” Harry corrected, fondly. “Like a little girl.”

“Fuck you, Potter,” Draco said mildly, letting his head fall forward to rest on Harry’s shoulder. “I suppose _you_ killed the basilisk with your bare hands.”

“The sword of Gryffindor, actually,” Harry said, carding his fingers through Draco’s hair. He liked the way it whispered, soft as silk, against his skin. “But before all that, we were convinced it was you behind everything going on at Hogwarts.”

“Flattered, I’m sure.”

“Ron and I Polyjuiced ourselves as Crabbe and Goyle and infiltrated Slytherin to find out if it really was you.”

“What?” Draco lifted his head again, staring at him. “Do you know... I think I remember that? Vince’s hair started turning red, and they – you – ran out. Then they swore they’d been ambushed by cupcakes. We teased them for months. Even now, they have the reputation as the worst pranksters in Slytherin.”

Harry grinned, and raised his hand. “Guilty.”

Draco shook his head, frowning. “Well, once was enough. You’re not ‘infiltrating’ Slytherin again.”

“And I’m not letting you out of my sight until you’ve slept at least eight hours,” Harry said, firmly.

“You stubborn –”

Something brushed past Harry’s leg, and he jumped. “Mrs Norris!” he whispered frantically, shoving the cat away. She gave him a dirty look, and prowled halfway down the hall, where she sat and stared at them, green eyes glowing menacingly in the dark.

“Your Invisibility Cloak,” Draco hissed, urgently.

“I don’t have it!”

“ _Here, kitty, kitty! Where’s my sweet puddykins? Puddy, puddy..._ ”

“Salazar’s balls!” Draco swore. He snapped out the password, “Shivering shrivelfigs!” and they tumbled through the door just as Filch turned the corner. Harry shoved the door closed. They collapsed back against it.

After a long, tense moment, Harry began to giggle. “ _Puddykins_.”

“Merlin, don’t,” Draco said, making a face. “Bad enough from Filch.” There was a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, though. He sighed, straightening. “I suppose you’d better come in, then.”

Fortunately, the common room was empty, save for one seventh year girl with short, dark curls, fast asleep over a textbook. Harry followed Draco down the boys’ hallway to the sixth year dorms, and a snake on the lintel uncoiled at their approach. “Little Slytherin,” it said, clearly pleased. “You have returned.”

“Um,” Harry said, awkwardly. “About that. I’m not actually a Slytherin, you know.”

“We know,” it hissed back, and the door opened.

“That was Parseltongue,” Draco said.

Harry winced. “Uh,” he said, sheepishly. “Yes?”

“I didn’t even know that was possible. They’ve never appeared sentient before. They just – ask for the password. In English. And let us in. How did it know you speak Parseltongue?”

“Ah.” Harry bit his lip. “I’ve kind of been down here before. As well. The day after you were attacked by Justin, when you were in the infirmary. You asked me to get Pansy, and she left the common room door open, and I –”

“Thought you’d snoop around?” Draco suggested. He didn’t sound angry; just matter-of-fact. “And I suppose the snakes let you in without a password, just like now. Did you find anything interesting?”

“I peeked into your room,” Harry admitted, “but I couldn’t go through with it.”

Draco snorted. He began stripping as soon as his door was closed behind them, working the delicate clasps to his robes with an ease of dexterity that Harry envied. “You really are the oddest mix of Gryffindor and Slytherin,” he said, and Harry’s eyes snapped back up to his face guiltily.

Draco smirked. He let his robes fall carelessly to the floor, and then took his time pulling on a pair of positively indecent pyjama bottoms. “Woven of the finest silk spun by Golden Orb spiders in Africa,” he said, offhandedly – but with justifiable pride, Harry thought, hoping he didn’t look as stunned as he felt. The pyjamas hung low on Draco’s hips, revealing just a hint of that fine dusting of blond hair that led in a triangle downwards, clinging to his legs like a second skin, showing off every lean curve of muscle, every… bulge.

Harry tried to keep his gaze above waist level, but it was impossible. He’d never seen Draco wear anything but layers of tunics and robes before. He felt _breathless_.

“Will you just get into bed already?” he snapped.

“If you insist on invading my privacy, you can hardly complain,” Draco told him, slipping under the covers. He stretched deliberately, making the lean muscles in his chest ripple invitingly.

Harry whirled away, pulling off his outer robes in jerky motions and settling himself on the floor by Draco’s bed. Draco peered at him over the side, eyebrows raised.

“Comfortable, are we, Potter?”

“I’m fine,” Harry said doggedly, punching his robes into a passable pillow. “ _Nox_.” The lights went out, leaving only the soft glow of the dying fire. He settled back with a huff, and closed his eyes, only to open them again in surprise when he felt the soft press of lips against his.

“Harry Potter, a gentleman,” Draco whispered. “Who would have thought?”


	19. Chapter 19

**CHAPTER NINE  
**

**TAKING A STAND**

Part Two

Draco woke screaming. Flashes of his dreams – Greyback standing over his mother, Cardosa’s smile, his hands – paraded through his mind. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead, and bile filled his mouth. “Harry, Harry! _Harry!_ ”

“I’m here _,_ ” a voice said, and it was only then that Draco realised there were arms around him. “I’m here _,_ sweetheart, it’s okay.”

“I can’t do this,” Draco said, scrabbling for and clenching his fists in Harry’s shirt. “I can’t, I _can’t –_ ”

“I’m here,” Harry assured him. “I love you. Please let me help.”

Draco tried to steady his breathing, but the terror was too near, tears too close to the surface. He rolled onto his back instead, pulling Harry with him. “I need you,” he said, hooking his legs around Harry’s waist and arching up into him. “Fuck me.”

Harry gasped. “No. _No_. Draco, I can’t – my magic, remember –”

“I don’t care,” Draco said, urgently. “I can still feel his hands on me. I need you to erase him!”

Harry stared down at him, horrified. “You said he didn’t hurt you.”

Draco made an impatient noise. “Hurt, molest. What difference does it make?”

“What difference – he _did_ hurt you! Why did you make me let him go?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Draco muttered, wriggling out of his pyjama bottoms. He tugged at Harry’s clothes. “Come on, come _on_...”

“Draco, stop! I don’t want to hurt you!”

“You won’t,” Draco said. “Your magic has never hurt me. It answers your subconscious desires. Why would it hurt me now, unless your intentions towards me have changed?”

“But,” Harry said, helplessly, “Madam Pomfrey, Pansy –”

Draco growled. He didn’t want to think about his mother, or his task, or the fate that awaited his family if he failed. He didn’t want to think about whatever the fuck was going on with their magic. He just wanted to _forget_. “Are you going to make me beg?”

Harry froze. “No,” he said, quietly. “Of course not, sweetheart.” He pulled off his own clothes, and Draco moaned, shuddering, as he lowered himself back down. “You’re sure about this?” Draco parted his legs in response, arching up, and he watched in satisfaction as Harry’s eyes closed at the delicious friction. “Do you want –?” Harry forced out. “I mean, I’d be okay with some – reciprocation.”

Draco stretched up to kiss him, surprised and gratified. “I appreciate that,” he said, honestly. “And I will take you up on it, but not right now. Right now, I want your cock inside me, and your hand on mine.”

Harry smiled, a hint of relief in those pretty green eyes. It made Draco abruptly angry. A large, vindictive part of him wanted Finch-Fletchley to rot in Azkaban for what he’d done to Harry, never mind Hogsmeade. “I can do that,” Harry said, fastening his lips over Draco’s pulse point and sucking hard.

Draco welcomed the distraction with a moan, tilting his head back as Harry’s hands began their journey south. The sure, proprietary touch took his breath away. _Claiming him_ , Draco thought. Harry was right. He did like it, more than he should. He liked being pinned down, knowing he couldn’t move, his body held captive to Harry’s will.

Merlin help him if Harry ever realised just how much power Draco was handing him every time they fucked.

Harry slipped his hands under Draco’s arse, and jerked up.

Draco cried out, shuddering. “P-Potter –”

“Harry,” Harry corrected him. “You say it most of the time now. At least, when you’re not thinking about it. I’ve given you my word that I’ll reciprocate, soon. Say it. Harry.” He insinuated one hand between them, cupping it around Draco’s cock, tight and hot and _still_ , and Draco writhed under him involuntarily. “Say it.”

“Bloody hell, Potter, _move_.”

“Say. It.”

“Demanding bugger,” Draco muttered. He consciously stilled himself, lowering his eyelids seductively and sliding his toes down Harry’s calf. “Fuck me, Potter.”

Harry growled, biting into the skin just above Draco’s collarbone. He fumbled for his wand. “ _Aperti lubrico_!”

Draco groaned. “No foreplay today, Potter?”

“You call me Potter one more time, and I’ll stop,” Harry warned, his voice almost a growl. He manhandled Draco over onto his hands and knees, draping himself over Draco’s back and sucking another hickey into his neck. “You don’t want me to stop, do you?” he murmured, teasing the head of his cock lightly over Draco’s entrance.

“I’ll call you Merlin himself if it’ll hurry you the hell up,” Draco promised, trying to push back onto his cock.

“Just Harry will do,” Harry smirked, and rammed himself home.

Draco screamed, falling forward onto his forearms. “B-bloody hell! Harry…”

“That’s better,” Harry said, and slid out, all the way. “Again, Draco.” He slammed back in, catching his prostate unerringly, and Draco jerked and sobbed.

“ _Harry_ – Salazar’s sake, just –”

“One. More. Time,” Harry said, biting into Draco’s shoulder savagely as he thrust.

“Harry!” Draco shouted, and came, his vision exploding with blinding white stars.

An eternity and mere moments later, he opened his eyes to find Harry making lazy, shallow thrusts inside him. His skin throbbed where the other boy had bitten him unmercifully. “Bastard,” he said breathlessly.

He felt Harry smile against his back. “Come on,” he murmured, pulling out. He turned to sit up against the headboard, his knees bent. “Sit,” he demanded.

Draco shivered, running a finger lightly up Harry’s hard, flushed cock. “You want me to –”

“Ride me, yes,” Harry said, and Draco wondered just where in the seven hells that innocent, endearing blush of his was now. But he held all the cards; Draco wanted, desperately, to be fucked, and so he straddled Harry’s lap, hesitating only when that thick cock brushed his tender hole. Harry wrapped his fingers around Draco’s soft, oversensitive cock again, and he gasped, almost losing his balance.

“Damn it, Potter –”

“Really, Draco?” Harry said, sighing, and let go to take hold of his hips. “It’s _Harry_ ,” he insisted, and jerked down as he thrust up. Draco convulsed, crying out in shock as the rigid length filled him far too quickly.

“All right, all right! Harry!” He panted for breath, waiting for the discomfort to ebb before he leaned back, very carefully, against Harry’s legs. “Merlin’s balls,” he said, shakily. “You don’t need your magic to reduce me to a quivering wreck. You do that just fine on your own.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Harry said, his eyes dark with lust, and Draco remembered he hadn’t come yet. “Now move.”

And Draco did.

~*~

Harry woke in an unfamiliar bed, curled around a warm body. He tensed, reaching instinctively for his glasses, but then the body made a snuffling noise and pressed closer, and he relaxed again. He was intimately familiar with those hard planes and sharp angles, by now.

Up close, he could see Draco’s face, soft and untroubled in sleep. Harry smiled. He hadn’t been sure he was taking the right approach last night, when Draco had woken screaming and terrified, but he seemed to have exhausted the other boy enough that there had been no more nightmares.

It was almost six, which meant it was time to go. He didn’t much fancy running into any other Slytherins on their home turf.

Lifting his arm gently from around Draco’s waist, he slipped out of bed. His clothes were in a pile on the floor, and he pulled them on carelessly, shoving his robes under his arm.

Then he paused, looking at Draco.

He remembered waking alone, the first time he’d fallen asleep in Justin’s bed. He’d had a bad day, and they’d exchanged mutual hand-jobs. It had been… nice. But the next morning had been one of the worst experiences of Harry’s life, right up there with Little Hangleton, and the Department of Mysteries, and the time the Dursleys had gone away for the whole weekend and forgotten they’d left him locked in his cupboard.

Making up his mind, Harry knelt back on the bed, bending to press a kiss to Draco’s lips. Draco stirred under him, and Harry smiled. “You awake?”

“Not at this gods-forsaken hour, I’m not,” Draco grumbled, trying to curl into him. “Why are you up? Come back to bed.”

“It’s six,” Harry explained. “I should go. The other Slytherins –”

“Won’t question my right to have whomever I want in my room,” Draco said. He opened his eyes when his fingers touched Harry’s sleeve, and looked Harry over reproachfully. “You’re dressed. I thought you said something about reciprocation, last night.”

“So I did,” Harry said. Draco was warm and soft and inviting below him, and he resigned himself to his utter inability to resist when Draco _wanted_ him like this. He ran his hand up Draco’s inner thigh, and his lover sighed softly, letting his legs fall open. Harry slipped a finger down under Draco’s balls, pressing in just a little, thrilled to find him still a little slick and loose from the night before. “You got what you wanted, right?” He searched Draco’s eyes. “I didn’t hurt you?”

Draco scoffed. “It was good. Exactly what I wanted, as you well know.”

Harry smiled. “And nothing weird happened? I didn’t steal your magic?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Good,” Harry said. “Then this morning we do what _I_ want. And what I want is you, wrapped tight and hot around my cock.”

He shed his clothes hastily, shifting onto his knees and grasping Draco’s hips. He pulled him up onto his lap, and Draco sucked in a breath as Harry’s cock brushed over his hot, tender hole; Harry had no doubt that he was a little sore and bruised this morning. He would be like a furnace inside, and Harry had to fight the urge to slam into him then and there.

“Potter…”

“It’s okay,” Harry said, soothing him with gentle hands. “I’ll take care of you.” He murmured “ _Lubrico_ ,” and waited for Draco to register the deliberate omission. Then he leaned down to silence any protests with his tongue, enjoying the shivers that wracked the body under him as he pushed in slowly, gently. It was better than he’d imagined; the burning heat, the clenching of Draco’s walls around him as he fought the intrusion. He kissed Draco for as long as he could, until they were both gasping for breath, until he could no longer deny the instinct to move.

He rocked then, gently, finding a rhythm that suited them both, that had Draco meeting him thrust for thrust, nails digging into Harry’s back. His face was flushed, mouth red and wet and panting, and he opened his eyes as Harry watched, gazing up at him with a desire and _need_ that sent Harry falling, helplessly, over the edge – too soon, too _soon_ –

He came to moments later to find his cock softening in Draco’s arse, and Draco looking more than a little unhappy with him. “Sorry,” he gasped. “Sorry – let me –”

“Harry…” Draco tried to roll away, but Harry circled his wrists with his hands, stilling him.

“Please?” he said apologetically. “I know I haven’t before, but – I want to.”

Draco held his gaze for a moment, and then nodded. Nervous, Harry shuffled down the bed, bending his head to lap a trail down from Draco’s bellybutton to his cock. He feathered his hands up and down Draco’s inner thighs, and was pleased when Draco groaned, parting his legs for him again.

Taking a deep breath, he bent and sucked Draco’s erection into his mouth. Draco bucked up under him, and Harry’s gag reflex kicked in. He choked, coughing violently as he pulled back. “S-sorry,” he coughed, and bent down again quickly, determined to get it right.

Draco caught his head in his hands. “Stop,” he said firmly, and Harry tried to pull away. “No. Stop, Harry. Have you ever done this before?”

“Of course I have,” Harry said, indignantly. Then he deflated. “Well, once. And Justin kind of – came pretty quickly.”

Draco smirked. “He always was quick off the mark, wasn’t he? A bit like you, this morning.”

“I couldn’t help it,” Harry defended himself. “The way you were looking at me…”

Draco’s smirk softened, and he guided Harry’s hands to his hips. “Hold me down.”

“You still want me to –?”

Draco’s eyebrows rose. “Do I look satisfied to you?” Harry gazed down at Draco’s cock, bobbing and straining towards his mouth. “Little licks first,” Draco said, and Harry looked up again, reassured by the tenderness in that smile. Draco wasn’t impatient, or mocking him. He wanted this. Wanted him. “Hold it steady with your hand around the base,” Draco said.

Harry followed his instructions, wrapping his hand around the hot, hard length, licking at the rest like candy. He explored, running his tongue deliberately up the thick vein on the underside, finding the places that made Draco groan, that made him fall back and curl his toes in pleasure. Draco clutched at his shoulders, leaving little white imprints of his nails in Harry’s skin.

Harry grunted, and moved up to explore the foreskin, moving it back to expose the head. He lapped at it, pleased to find the flavour of Draco’s pre-cum entirely inoffensive.

Maybe it had just been that he’d had his first taste while choking on Justin’s cock. He was beginning to suspect that Draco was right, and Justin really hadn’t been all that great in bed. After all, who shoved their cock straight down a virgin’s throat?

“Harry,” Draco said breathlessly, his hands in Harry’s hair now, his hips making small, spasmodic jerks under his restraining arm. “Suck. Suck me. Now. Just – no teeth, and – keep your hand where –”

Harry closed his mouth over the head of Draco’s cock obligingly, and Draco dug his heels into the bed and arched up. Harry held him down obediently, and began to suck – gently, just enough to drive Draco mad. He moved his head down slowly, making sure not to let it hit the back of his throat, making sure his teeth were covered by his lips. He sucked until his jaw ached and Draco was writhing in pleasure under him.

Then he stopped, lifting his head to meet Draco’s gaze, grey eyes wide and desperate. He smiled sweetly. “Say ‘please, Harry’.”

Draco swore at him.

Harry dug his tongue into that spot he’d discovered just below the head of Draco’s cock, and Draco bucked wildly. Harry pulled away again, and Draco actually whimpered.

“Suck me, Harry! Merlin, _please_ –”

“Close enough,” Harry allowed, taking pity on him. He closed his mouth around Draco again, tight and hot, and sucked. Hard.

Draco wailed, and arched, and came. Harry had been expecting it this time, though, and he pulled back far enough that he could swallow and not choke. He still lost quite a lot of it – not like Draco, who swallowed him down cleanly, every time – but he was proud of himself nevertheless.

He cast a non-verbal _Purifico_ and rested his head on Draco’s thigh, waiting.

“That was bloody brilliant,” Draco said, at last, his eyes closed.

Harry moved up to lie next to him, pulling the sheets up over them. “I had a good teacher,” he said.

“Yes, you did,” Draco agreed lazily, his voice so full of that Malfoy arrogance that Harry grinned. He manhandled the other boy into the position he wanted, spooning with him, Draco’s arse nestled in his hips. He was hard again, and he slid back into that tight, slick heat with a groan.

Draco yelped and tried to scramble away, but Harry held him in place, wrapping his hand around his lover’s soft cock. “You know it feels good,” he murmured. Draco struggled, swearing, and Harry tutted, pulling out a little and rocking back in. “Language, Draco.”

“I’ll give you language,” Draco muttered, but he was helpless against Harry’s touch, already surrendering to his embrace, his cock hardening in Harry’s hand.

Harry smiled, and thrust.

~*~

It was almost eight-thirty by the time they made it out of Draco’s bathroom. Draco was limping a little, which made Harry grin. He’d taken Draco four times that morning; the last time, to Harry’s delight, initiated by Draco while they were supposed to be ‘cleaning up’ in the shower.

It had been incredible. Wet and slippery and – fuck, _amazing_. He shivered, feeling himself stir a little. Which should have been impossible after the last couple of hours.

Draco flashed a knowing smile at him in the mirror. He stood gazing at himself for longer than Harry thought strictly necessary (although he would be the first to admit that Draco’s vanity was not in any way unfounded). He was about to make a teasing remark to that effect when Draco lifted a hand, touching one of the bruises on his neck.

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. Draco shook his head, raising his wand.

“Ah, ah!” Harry said. He caught Draco around the waist from behind, resting his chin on his lover’s shoulder. Draco paused, arching an eyebrow at him. Harry just gently but firmly closed his hand around the wand, easing it out of Draco’s hand.

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “What do you think you’re doing, Potter?”

“Harry,” Harry said, automatically. “Don’t heal yourself today. I want you to feel me.”

“Feel you?” Draco said, incredulously. “Are you mad? I’ll be walking bow-legged all day. All day at the _trial_ , remember? And my neck looks like it’s been mauled!”

“I like it,” Harry mused, tracing one of the vivid bruises with his finger.

Draco sighed. “Witness my utter lack of shock.”

Harry grinned at him, bending his head to graze his teeth over a hickey under Draco’s jaw.

“I don’t have time for this,” Draco chided, even as he tilted his head obligingly. “I’ve had a good night’s sleep, like you wanted. I need to heal myself, and go back to last night. I’ll meet you here in less than a minute. You won’t even miss me.”

Harry frowned. “No.”

“… I’m sorry?”

“I said no,” Harry insisted. “You’ll be exhausted. What if you’re called to the stand? What if that Death Eater comes back, and you’re too tired to defend yourself? What if –”

“I don’t finish my task in time, and the Dark Lord kills me and my family?” Draco snapped. “What use is sleep then, Potter?”

“Please,” Harry pleaded, tightening his arms around him. Even pressed so intimately together, it felt like Draco was a million miles away from him. “ _Please_. Just for one day.”

“Potter,” Draco said, and then stopped. He made a sound of mingled annoyance and resignation. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of the Dark Moon Ritual?”

Harry shook his head.

Draco didn’t look surprised. “There are only vague references to it in even our oldest texts. My family made sure of it. But apparently the Dark Lord has uncovered it again, and he plans to use it on me if I fail. Harry… it sacrifices a child's magic to the Wild Magic. Any number of wizards can participate in the ritual, and from sunrise to sunset the next day, each one of them is gifted with a power greater than you can imagine. A single wizard could breach Hogwarts’ defences with a simple wave of his wand.”

Harry looked at him sceptically. “That’s not possible.”

Draco eased himself away, walking over to the fireplace. Harry shivered. The house-elves had obviously tended to the fire while they were in the bathroom, leaving the room toasty-warm, but he felt cold without Draco in his arms.

“It’s an evil perversion of magic,” Draco said, looking down at the fire. “It shouldn’t be possible. But these ancient rituals… the druids were in touch with the Wild Magic in a way we can’t even conceive of now.”

Harry frowned. “But if it makes a wizard that all-powerful, why wouldn’t Voldemort have used it before? He could take over the whole wizarding world in a night, and no one could stop him.”

Draco flinched, but otherwise didn’t react to the Dark Lord’s name being spoken aloud. Perhaps he was becoming inured to it, at last. “It’s evil, Potter, that’s why,” he said, turning. “Evil enough to give even _him_ pause. That he even mentioned it shows how seriously he considers my failure. I will be sacrificed, and then, when my magic has been completely drained from me and I am helpless to defend myself, he’ll give me to Greyback.”

 _And Voldemort will take Hogwarts_ , Harry thought, horrified. “You can’t let that happen.”

Draco laughed mirthlessly. “What choice do I have? He has my _mother_ , Potter. You know that. I know you do, Merlin knows how.” He turned away, shoving his fingers through his hair. His voice was thick. “Cardosa showed me a memory of Greyback in her bedchambers, standing over her – her body. I don’t even know if she’s alive right now.”

“Merlin,” Harry said, helplessly. “I’m so sorry, Draco.” He frowned. “Who’s Cardosa? Why do I know that name?”

“The Death Eater at the Ministry,” Draco said. “He has a daughter here. A first-year. Half-blood. I didn’t know he was a Death Eater until yesterday; the Cardosa family have a long pureblood pedigree, but the last several generations have married half-bloods and Muggleborns. They were neutral during the last war.”

Harry sighed, turning to pace the room. “I hate this,” he burst out. “I should report him, but if he goes to Azkaban, Adeline will have lost both her parents. She’s already lost her mother –”

“Slytherins take care of their own, Potter,” Draco interrupted. “She would be protected.”

Harry stared at him. “Even though she’s a half-blood?”

“She’s a Slytherin, Potter. That’s more important than blood _._ ”

Harry’s mouth dropped open. “Seriously?”

“Don’t look so surprised,” Draco said. “I wouldn’t marry a half-blood, whether or not she was in Slytherin. On the other hand, a pureblood with an impeccable pedigree, who wasn’t a Slytherin? I wouldn’t look at her twice, either. If we Slytherins don’t take care of our own, who will? Certainly not Dumbledore.”

Harry frowned. “He’s not a bad person, Draco. I know it seems like he’s prejudiced against Slytherins, but he cares about all his students. I think – I think he had a bad experience with someone in his youth, and then there was Riddle, and now me. Maybe he just wants to keep me from seeing anything but black and white. To protect me.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Protect, or subjugate?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Dumbledore doesn’t _subjugate_. He… manipulates, I guess. But he doesn’t do it maliciously. He only wants what’s best for me, and the wizarding world.”

“So he uses people like pawns,” Draco said. “Isn’t that what you said? How do you know you’re not just another pawn?”

Harry shrugged. “For a while, I thought I was. I thought he saw me as a weapon, and nothing else. But he’s trying to fight an enemy with far greater numbers, and protect hundreds of kids at the same time. Of course he has to prepare me for – for what I have to do, and of course he makes mistakes. But I have never doubted that he would take my burden from me as well, if he could.”

“Sacrificing a child for his notion of the greater good,” Draco said, dryly. “Funny how similar that is to what the Dark Lord intends to do to me. As _punishment_.”

“The difference is, I’m a willing participant,” Harry said.

Draco scowled. “In your death? You gave me your word, Potter.”

Startled, Harry said, “I – I know. I promised I’d try. I didn’t promise I’d succeed.”

“But you are no longer a willing participant,” Draco insisted. “Whatever Dumbledore has planned, you will not go to your death willingly.”

Harry crossed the room to kiss him, and Draco wrapped his arms around Harry’s waist, keeping him close. “I gave you my word,” Harry said, “and I intend to keep it, as best I can. As long as you promise me the same.”

Draco sighed. “You do realise that extracting such a vow from a Slytherin is the height of redundancy, don’t you?” Harry smiled at him, and Draco rolled his eyes. “Very well. If it makes you feel better, I promise, too.”

“Thank you,” Harry said.

“Of course, if you report Cardosa, the Dark Lord will know I told you his name, and I will be killed for betraying him. So I suppose that’s off the table.”

Harry snorted. “Why does it have to be this hard?”

“You chose to fall in love with a Death Eater,” Draco said, shrugging. “What did you expect?”

Harry scoffed at him. “As if I chose to fall in love with you. I was determined not to see you as anything but an evil git with a Death Eater for a father. And then when I overheard your conversation on the train with Pansy and Zabini, I was hell-bent on proving you’d been recruited for some kind of mission inside Hogwarts.”

Draco considered him thoughtfully. “You said you knew I’d taken the Mark under duress.”

“I worked it out,” Harry admitted. “It took me longer than it should have, longer than I’m proud of. But as I said, I wanted to believe the worst of you. Until I couldn’t, anymore. And then everything changed.”

A smile touched Draco’s lips. “I know the feeling.”

Harry smiled back at him. “I’ll make you a deal. I’ll give you your wand back, and let you heal –” he hesitated, and pulled Draco’s robes to one side, bending his head and brushing his lips over a bruise just at the juncture of Draco’s neck and shoulder, “all but this one. It’ll be covered by your robes. No one will know it’s there but me. And in return, I want the Time-Turner.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “You want me to give you the Time-Turner in exchange for giving me back my _own_ wand, and leaving your mark on my skin? I fail to see how that deal in any way favours me.”

Harry’s eyes fell to the bruise again, and he wondered if Draco realised what he’d just said. _Your mark_. It might not be permanent, like Voldemort’s, but it was still a claim, of sorts. He raised his eyes to Draco’s again, and saw the knowledge of it reflected there. “Just for one day,” he said. “Please? You need to give your body time to recover. Just for one day.”

Draco closed his eyes, and sighed. “I don’t suppose you’re familiar with the expression ‘killing me softly’, Potter?”

~*~

Harry slipped the Time-Turner over his head as Draco opened the door, tucking it away safely inside his shirt. Crabbe, Goyle and Nott were already in the small den; Crabbe and Goyle yawning and scratching their balls, Nott with his head buried in a book. They all looked up when Draco’s door opened.

“Draco,” Nott said, and then stopped, eyes widening. “Potter.”

“Nott,” Harry returned politely, thinking that this was more than a little bizarre. And then Zabini’s door opened, and two people tumbled out, pawing at each other. Bizarre turned into truly freakish. “ _Ginny_?”

Her head jerked up. “Harry?”

They stared at each other, and Ginny’s face slowly turned beet-red. “I have to go,” she said quickly, and ran out of the room.

Harry turned to Draco. “I should –” he said, gesturing helplessly at the door.

Draco nodded, but before Harry could move, he found himself caught up in Draco’s arms. Draco’s tongue was in his mouth, plundering the depths of his mouth like he was claiming him for the whole world to see. Harry gasped, legs weakening. He clutched handfuls of Draco’s robes with trembling hands, just holding on for the ride. When Draco let him go at last, Harry leaned on him for a full minute, trembling.

Zabini wolf-whistled.

“Shut it, Blaise,” Draco said mildly, tugging a strand of Harry’s hair affectionately.

“You’ve been holding out on me,” Harry whispered. He pressed a quick, hard kiss against Draco’s lips, a promise, before reluctantly letting go. He hurried out of the room and up the hallway to the common room, garnering dozens of double-takes from the Slytherins going about their morning routine.

Unfortunately, Ginny was long gone, and he was stopped again, this time by a seventh year girl with short dark curls. “Harry Potter,” she said, hands on her hips. “What exactly do you think you’re doing in here?”

Harry met her eyes steadily. “I was with Draco.”

“Draco, is it?” she sneered. A group of others, mostly seventh years, stepped in behind her, blocking his way. “And what did you want with _Draco_ , Potter?”

“Pretty sure that’s none of your business,” Harry said.

She glared at him. “You’ve got some balls on you, Potter.”

“And they’re mine,” Draco said smoothly, stepping up beside him. “I’d say get some of your own, Atwood, but everyone knows you prefer pussy.”

A few of the Slytherins tittered.

Atwood sneered. “Like you’re one to talk, Malfoy. What would your father say if he knew you were a poof? And your _mother_ … I can just imagine dear Narcissa’s face when she finds out. That is, if either of them survive your collective failures.”

Draco didn’t move, but Harry fancied he could feel the air around them growing colder. The students facing them actually shivered.

Atwood took a step back.

“You seem to have forgotten what everyone else in this room knows, Sadie,” Draco said, softly. “I am a Malfoy, and Malfoys survive. We might fall, but we always rise again, and those who betray us never go unpunished. You think a third-generation pureblood poses a threat to _me_? Your father may have moved up the ranks since our defeat at the Ministry last year, but _you_ … I doubt the Dark Lord even knows you exist. The Malfoys may be in disgrace, but I have something you can only dream of.” He pulled up his left sleeve, exposing his Mark.

Harry averted his eyes, looking around the room instead. There were more shocked faces than he’d have thought. And then he understood why, when he realised they were all looking at him.

“Potter _knows_?” Atwood said, incredulously.

Harry tried frantically to think of a rational explanation. But the politics and games the Slytherins played were frankly beyond him. Maybe if he’d been Sorted into the House from the beginning...

Draco took his hand and squeezed firmly. “You understand nothing,” he said, still in that quiet, deadly tone. “And I suggest, if you want to survive the coming war, you keep your nose out of my business.”

“Is there a problem here?” Pansy said, walking up to the group.

Atwood glared at her. “No problem,” she said, turning away. Her friends followed her.

Pansy watched them go, worry creasing her brow. “They’re going to be trouble, Draco,” she murmured. “Sadie is not someone we should cross without being prepared for the consequences.”

Draco smiled; a bright, anticipatory smile that took Harry entirely unawares. He stared, feeling his heart flutter in his chest. “Oh, I know,” he said. “I look forward to seeing her try.”

~*~

Harry slipped into the seat beside Ron at the Gryffindor table, snagging a piece of crispy bacon from his plate. Ron grunted, but his mouth was too full to protest, and Harry was already talking by the time he’d chewed enough to swallow. “Did you know Ginny’s dating Blaise Zabini?”

Ron choked. Hermione looked up from the three thick, dusty library books surrounding her, eyes wide. “She’s _what_?”

“I saw her, coming out of his room this morning.”

“WHAT?” Ron’s enraged shout had half of Gryffindor looking up. He shot to his feet, hands clenched into fists.

“Ron!” Hermione said, reaching out to him. “Wait!”

“I’m going to kill him,” Ron said, eyes bulging. “I’m going to KILL him!”

“Not if I get to him first,” Dean said grimly, and Harry realised he’d been sitting right next to Ron.

He winced. “Oops?”

Hermione glowered at him. “Nice work, Harry. Ronald, _sit down_.”

“But Hermione –!”

“Ginny’s a big girl,” she said, firmly. “You have no right to go after Zabini. Not unless he hurts her, and even then that's debatable, and dependent entirely on her wishes. She was okay, wasn’t she, Harry?”

“Yes,” Harry said, very meekly. “Fine, actually.”

“Well, then.” Hermione crossed her arms. “Unless you want to be estranged from your sister forever, Ronald, I suggest you sit back down. And you won’t say a word to her about it, either, not unless she comes to you about it. And Dean…” She looked at the other boy, her expression softening, “I’m really sorry.”

He nodded miserably. “What do you think I should do?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione said, awkwardly. “I’m sorry. I’m not exactly an expert on relationships.”

“You seem to have done all right,” Dean said, nodding at Ron, who had taken his seat again, grumbling a little, his fingers twining with Hermione’s across the table entirely unconsciously.

She regarded their hands, smiling shyly. “Yeah. I have, haven’t I?”

Harry looked away. He was happy for them, he really was. But it was still hard, knowing that his two best friends had found in each other what he'd always wanted for himself, so very badly.

“I tried to apologise to her,” Dean said. “I guess I just made it worse.”

“If it’s any consolation,” Ron said, gruffly, “I’d much prefer _you_ dating my sister over Zabini.”

Dean snorted. “Thanks, mate. Even if it is three days too late.”

“I don’t think it would have made a difference,” Hermione said. “Dean, I’m really sorry, but I think Ginny might still fancy herself in love with Harry.”

“Me?” Harry said, taken aback. “But I’m –”

“I know,” Hermione said, quickly. “And she knows. But I think she hopes that while you’re still unattached, there might be a chance. Remember, she started dating Dean when you were dating Justin?”

Dean groaned and dropped his head onto his arms. “I knew it. It’s hopeless.”

Hermione pursed her lips. “Not necessarily. Ginny’s very independent. She doesn’t realise it, of course, but she would never be happy with Harry. Harry needs too much. He needs to be loved, to be needed. To protect, to belong, to _own_.”

Harry stared at her.

“Ginny, on the other hand, just wants one thing. She wants to be trusted. She hated that you kept looking for someone to ‘steal her away’. She hated the jealousy. That would never suit Harry. He _likes_ being jealous and possessive.”

Harry felt his mouth drop open. But Hermione wasn’t looking at him, and despite himself, he thought of that morning. Draco was walking around with _Harry’s_ teeth marks in his skin, right now, and it made heat flush through him. He remembered pressing Draco’s wrists to the bed. Claiming him with tongue, and fingers, and cock. Drawing him in close, an arm around his waist, hand in his hair, kissing him in full view of his friends, their teachers…

“You have to decide whether it can suit you,” Hermione continued. “Whether you can trust her not to leave you for another boy. If not, don’t even try. You’ll never be happy with her.”

Dean frowned. “But how can I trust her, when she ran off to sleep with a Slytherin the minute we broke up? Over something I said when I was drunk?”

“It’s not the _minute_ you broke up,” Hermione said, tartly. “And it’s that kind of possessiveness that made her leave you, not the fact that you drank a bit too much. Anyway, she probably needs something to hold onto, after a break-up which I think hit her harder than she thought it would. Zabini is taking advantage of that.”

Dean’s face darkened, and Ron bristled. “Why, that slimy –”

“It’s her choice,” Hermione reminded them. “But I imagine she’s pretty miserable right now.” She looked at Harry, and he straightened guiltily. “Harry, I think you need to tell Ginny there’s no way anything can ever happen between you. And, actually,” she said, thoughtfully, “it might help if you tell her you’ve fallen in love with Malfoy.”

Harry choked. “What?”

“I mean it,” she said, obviously warming to the idea. “You’d only be confirming her suspicions. And then she might actually be able to move on.”

“Why would she think that?” Harry protested. “She knows about The Plan! She knows it’s all a ruse!”

Hermione touched his hand. “You’re underestimating how convincing you are, Harry. To the rest of the world, right now, you do look as if you’re truly in love.”

“But I’m not,” Harry said, blankly. “What happens when it’s all over, and I have to tell her the truth? It’s bad enough lying to Draco. I can’t lie to someone who might as well be my sister.”

Ron made a contemplative noise. “’Preciate that, mate. But is it really so far from the truth? You said it had to be ‘real’ between you; you’ve been saying that from the start. And I know you don’t hate him anymore. You couldn’t sleep with someone you hated. So in the end, you’re really only lying about the depth of your feelings for him, aren’t you?”

Harry stared at him. He could hear the rush of blood in his ears. “I don’t –”

“That’s enough,” Hermione said, sharply. “Harry, honey? It might help, that’s all I’m saying. Just think about it, okay?” Her voice was gentle, and he nodded mutely. “As for you, Dean, if you’re still serious about Ginny, try and win her back without treating her like some kind of pet you own, or going nuts on her every time she so much as looks at another guy. All right?”

“All right,” Dean said decisively, standing. “Thanks, Hermione.”

“You’re welcome,” she said. “And good luck.”

“Uh,” Ron said, once Dean was safely out of earshot, “Hermione? Just to clarify. You wouldn’t run off to a Slytherin for ‘comfort’ three days after we broke up, would you?”

Hermione smiled at him fondly. “Of course not. Not that I plan on ever breaking up with you.”

“Really?” Ron said, looking revoltingly happy.

“Really,” Hermione said, and Ron leaned over the breakfast table and kissed her, right there and then.

Harry groaned and fell backwards off the bench.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for your comments and kudos! xx

**CHAPTER TEN**

**ROCK MY WORLD**

_Please, just for me, forget the steps..._  
 _Hold me, feel the music, and give me your soul._  
 _Then I can give you mine._  
~ Sally Blake

Part One

The third day of the trial went much like the second, with both the prosecution and defence downplaying the severity of Justin’s attack. Madam Rosmerta testified to the damage caused to her establishment by “the fight” and resulting stampede. She was vague and dispassionate, and the defence saw no need to cross-examine.

When she left the courtroom, Robards turned and bowed to the panel of judges. “The prosecution rests, Minster.”

Harry stared at him, taken aback.

“Thank you, Auror Robards,” Scrimgeour said. “Madam Primrose, if you would –”

Harry jumped to his feet. “We’re not finished!” he said, loudly.

A murmur went through the stands.

Draco was very still beside him, but he pinched Harry’s thigh, hard, hidden by the folds of their robes. Harry batted his hand away, too angry to heed his warning. “What about all the other people who saw what Justin did?” he demanded. “The students, the two Hit Wizards –”

“Whittaker and Holland are testifying for the defence,” Scrimgeour said, frowning.

“His wand, then! If you do _Priori Incantato_ on it, it’ll show he cast _Crucio_ –”

“After Miss Granger stole my defendant’s wand, she used it to bind him and render him unconscious,” Madam Primrose said, primly. “The last spell cast from his wand was _Stupefy._ There is no proof the alleged Unforgivable was cast at all.”

Harry scoffed. “No proof except the _eye witness_ accounts, and Madam Pomfrey’s evidence of Draco’s injuries, complicated by the Cruciatus Curse –”

“And which he does not even have a scar from,” Madam Primrose said. “Please, Mr Potter, you are obstructing the course of justice.”

“Justice!” Harry laughed incredulously. “You’re joking, right? This is a travesty of justice!”

Umbridge leaned forward. “ _Hem hem_ ,” she said, and the courtroom quietened. Harry tensed. “Mr Potter, if you cannot behave yourself, I am afraid you will have to be removed. Temper tantrums have no place in the courtroom, whatever your opinion of our oldest and most sacred laws and traditions.”

Harry glared at her, opening his mouth.

“ _Harry_ ,” Draco whispered, furiously. “She's making you out to be a troublemaker! Do you want them to kick you out?”

Harry subsided. Draco was right. Besides, Umbridge was looking far too pleased with herself, and his day was already bad enough without making hers any better. He sank back down onto the bench, and the Minister called for order. “This _sucks_ ,” he said, under his breath.

Draco hummed thoughtfully. “So do you, Potter. And very well, I might add.”

Harry felt a reluctant grin tugging at his lips. How was it that even when he was utterly furious, conflicted about his feelings, conflicted about _Draco’s_ feelings, about The Plan itself… how was it that even then, Draco could make it all better with a few words? “That was below you,” he said.

“It was, wasn’t it,” Draco agreed. “But worth it to see you smile.”

Harry laughed in surprise, and then covered his mouth with his hand when the people nearby shot him disapproving looks. “That was almost sappy, Malfoy,” he whispered. “Careful, or I might start thinking you _care_.”

“Which would, of course, be completely incomprehensible,” Draco murmured.

Harry looked at him questioningly, but Draco didn’t elaborate, and Harry turned his attention back to the trial. The defence had already called their first witness to the stand: Hit Wizard Holland. Madam Primrose launched immediately into questions about the morning the Dark Mark had been spotted over the Finch-Fletchley home.

“The Aurors were busy in London and Gloucester, investigating sightings of known Death Eaters, and responding to the threat of an attack against Diagon Alley,” Holland explained. “My team was dispatched instead.”

He went on to describe the crime scene. The ravaged house, the mangled bodies, Justin’s mother half-covering her daughter Paige, as if she’d been trying to protect the thirteen-year-old. There were silent tears pouring down Justin’s face by the end of the account, and more than a few in the crowd were sniffing, including Flitwick, who was blowing his nose into a frilly handkerchief.

Scrimgeour called for a brief recess, looking sad and tired.

“They shouldn’t have made Justin listen to that,” Harry said, angrily.

Draco eyed him sideways. “Harry Potter, everybody’s hero.”

Harry sighed. “He doesn't need a hero. He’s not even going to need character witnesses, at this rate. If they imply _one more time_ that you _made_ him torture you –”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “You don’t know that I didn’t goad him into it, Potter.”

“Yes, I do,” Harry retorted. “You told me once that you could’ve understood Ron or Katie attacking you, because they had good cause. You didn’t give Justin good cause.”

Draco sighed. “Apparently being happy is cause enough.”

Harry followed his gaze to Justin, who was glaring at them as if he’d like nothing better than to reach out and tear their hearts from their chests. He winced. “He’s grieving and locked up, facing Azkaban or – or the Kiss for what he did to you. Of course he’s angry we’re happy.”

Draco leaned against Harry’s shoulder. He looked tired. “Define happy, exactly.”

Harry felt his own expression darken. “Cardosa –”

“Has no power over me but what I give him,” Draco said, dismissively. Still, Harry couldn’t help remembering how desperate he’d been last night, how needy; clinging to Harry like he might fall apart at any moment, like Harry was the only thing holding him together. “My mother, on the other hand...”

There was a long pause.

Suddenly the benches around them began to rumble, then shake violently. Their unwary occupants spilled onto the floor. Cries filled the air.

Harry grabbed for Draco instinctively, only to find him staring blankly into the distance, his body still as stone. Baffled, Harry slipped to his knees beside him, looking up into his face anxiously. “Draco?”

Draco didn’t meet his eyes. His hands were clenched into fists. The whole room was quaking. People were panicking, fighting to get to the entrance and get out. A reporter tripped and fell head-first down the stairs, screaming. Professor Flitwick caught her with a flick of his wand. He gathered her close to him and the other children, a bubble of protection forming around him. He was shouting something in Harry’s direction, but Harry only had eyes and ears for one person.

“Draco, come back,” he said. “Draco, can you hear me? Come back!”

He grabbed Draco’s hands.

For one brilliant moment, it was like touching pure sunshine. He gasped, and something in his chest jerked him forward, pulling him off-balance. An image flashed across his mind. A bloodied body on a bed, a horrific monster biting down into it. A scream began to build in his throat. He wanted to cry, and rage, and _destroy_ –

The ground split beneath them. The room erupted in screams of terror.

 _No_ , Harry thought. _No_. No one else would die because of him.

Draco sucked in a deep breath, and shuddered. His eyes focused on Harry. He looked bewildered and lost, but when Harry jerked his hands down, he could feel Draco’s acceptance. Their magic met and focused, and the room stopped moving.

Four Aurors skidded to a stop below them, wands out. “Who did that?” Robards snapped, loudly. “Who cast that spell?”

Harry turned and stood in one smooth motion, instinctively shielding Draco. “It was me, sir,” he said. “I’m sorry. But it wasn’t a spell. I’ve been having trouble with my magic recently. I didn’t do it deliberately.”

Robards stared at him. “You’re sixteen, aren’t you, Potter? You must have used –”

Harry shook his head. “No, sir. I give you my word. I just – lost my temper, and my magic exploded, or something.”

Robards looked incredulous. “That kind of accidental magic is unacceptable from someone your age, Potter. You are hereby banned from this courtroom until the end of the trial –”

“But, sir, I’m speaking for Justin!” Harry protested. “As a character witness.”

Robards hesitated. “ _For_ Finch-Fletchley?”

“I just want a fair trial,” Harry said. “That’s all. Justin deserves that much.”

“And your boyfriend?” Robards said, pointedly.

“My boyfriend is the _victim_ ,” Harry retorted. “Which everyone here seems to have forgotten, including the prosecution.”

Robards scowled. “I haven’t forgotten. I also haven’t forgotten that he’s the son of a convicted Death Eater. Lucius attacked _you_ in the Ministry last year! Five children! You of all people should know better. Everyone knows how your parents died, betrayed by a Death Eater in disguise –”

Fury surged through Harry. “I’m sorry for your losses, sir,” he bit out. “But you have no idea what happened that night. It wasn’t Sirius who betrayed my parents, but you sent him to Azkaban without even a trial. And now you’re making exactly the same kind of snap judgement about Draco, based on prejudice and not much else. If it was me Justin had attacked, would you be so quick to brush off what he did?”

“But it wasn’t you,” Robards argued. “And there’s a reason for that. Draco Malfoy is just like every Malfoy before him, following in his daddy’s footsteps – murdering, scum-sucking Death Eater that he is! Draco Malfoy is a Dark wizard; the whole family is. Mark my words, before this war is over, your boyfriend will be murdering and torturing innocents in You-Know-Who’s name, and dancing on their graves!”

Harry tried to imagine that, and failed utterly. He stuffed a fist in his mouth.

Robards snarled. “ _What_?”

“Nothing,” Harry said breathlessly, deciding it was probably a bad idea to tell the man that dancing on graves was far too undignified an act for Draco Malfoy. “But Draco is not his father. He never will be. And nothing – _nothing_ gives you the right to discriminate against someone based solely on who their father is. How can you call that justice? How is that any different from Voldemort’s prejudice against Muggleborns?”

Robards didn’t speak for a long moment. “You make a compelling case, Potter,” he said, reluctantly. “Have you considered studying wizarding law?”

Harry shrugged. “I thought maybe I’d like to be an Auror, once. Now I’m not so sure.”

Robards looked amused. “Touché. Very well, Mr Potter, you can stay, provided of course that the Minister is satisfied with your apology. But I trust there will be no further outbursts.” Harry nodded silently. “And, Potter? Someday I’d like to hear what you think happened the night your parents died, and Sirius Black murdered twelve Muggles.”

Harry turned back to Draco, feeling that awful, gut-wrenching guilt again. Sirius had never been exonerated in his lifetime, and that was Harry’s fault. “Someday, sir,” he said, “I just might like to tell you.”

~*~

The Daily Prophet rushed off a special edition that evening, screaming that the Boy Who Lived was a dangerous lunatic who had destroyed a courtroom, and wondering if it wasn’t bordering on criminal negligence to allow him to continue living in a school full of children.

 _Accidental magic in one as old as sixteen is unheard of!_ it said. _Either he is lying, which as we all know is hardly unprecedented for the wayward Boy Who Lived, or such an explosion of magic indicates a serious lack of control. One cannot help wondering if Harry Potter has learnt anything at all during his six years at our most prestigious school, Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry. Professors at the school could not be reached for comment, but rest assured this reporter will keep trying._

"What dribble,” Professor McGonagall said in disgust, tossing the paper onto a nearby bed.

“Indeed,” Dumbledore said, frowning.

Harry's aberrant magic was one thing. He was the Chosen One, prophesied to possess a power the Dark Lord knew not _._ That power, of course, Dumbledore knew to be Lily’s love for her son. It wasn't outside the realm of possibility that Harry's aberrant magic tied into that, somehow. Possibly with a nudge in the right direction. Such was the nature of prophecies. Dumbledore had found that any event could be moulded to fit the narrative, if only one was willing to do what was necessary.

Malfoy, however. Malfoy was the proverbial fly in the potion. A Death Eater possessed of the same magic as the Chosen One? Magic that not even Dumbledore could hope to achieve with the Elder wand...

It was a terrifying prospect.

“Poppy, the potions?” he asked.

“Severus is bringing them,” Madam Pomfrey assured him.

“This wasn’t even Harry’s fault!” Miss Granger said in an aggrieved tone, her own copy of the newspaper spread out in front of her.

“No?” Miss Parkinson said, looking at the two boys sitting quietly side-by-side on a bed. “You’re _sure_ , are you, Potter? You did nothing that might have triggered this?”

Dumbledore frowned.

“I –” Harry looked guilty. “I didn’t think so? Not at the time, but we kind of – I know we weren’t supposed to, and I’m sorry, but it just kind of happened, last night, and – well, nothing happened. It was _fine_!” His cheeks flushed red. “It was fine, uh, a few times, actually.”

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Parkinson said, drawing her wand.

Young Mr Weasley looked bemused, but Miss Granger had a hand over her mouth. “Oh, Harry!” she said, reproachfully. “You _slept_ with him again? After everything we _told_ you?”

Madam Pomfrey tutted. “It's possible nothing happened because neither of you wanted anything to happen. You are aware, now, of what your magic is doing, and that means your subconscious was working in tandem with your consciousness to prevent any incidents. But that won’t always work, as evidenced by today.”

Parkinson’s hand tightened on her wand. “You’re saying…”

“Miss Parkinson,” Dumbledore said sharply, deciding it was time to intervene. “May I suggest you think carefully before using that wand?”

Her eyes snapped to his, and he held her gaze for a moment. She was well aware of her precarious position here. One Death Eater was already one too many for this discussion, in Dumbledore’s opinion. Unfortunately, Malfoy had insisted, and Dumbledore had no intention of driving a further wedge in his relationship with Harry by upsetting his so-called ‘boyfriend’.

“Mr Malfoy, you have been very quiet,” he said. “Do you believe that what happened today was, in fact, similar to the magic Harry has been experiencing?”

Malfoy turned his head a little, but he didn’t meet Dumbledore’s eyes. Dumbledore noticed that Harry had a hand pressed discreetly against his thigh. “It was not deliberate, nor was I using my wand,” he said. “And since I am _not_ a child –” with a brief glance at Miss Granger, “I can only conclude that, yes, it had significant parallels to Harry’s unfortunate episodes, though I was not in the least aroused at the time.” He shrugged. “On the other hand...”

“It was incredible,” Harry whispered, and Dumbledore moved closer. He didn’t trust his old ears not to miss something important. “We stopped it, together. It was like our – our magic _met_ , somehow, and asked it to stop, and it did.”

“It?” Dumbledore said. “It what?”

Harry frowned. “Um. His magic? Or, no, the room. We asked the room – the ground – to stop moving.”

“But that really does sound like marriage bonds, Harry,” Miss Granger said, looking bewildered. “Using your magic like that, together, without a ritual or an incantation… I thought that was impossible. Your magic has to be linked somehow, and it’s not – it _can’t_ be, there has to be a formal ceremony and everything –”

“I think we can all agree that it is not a bond, Granger,” Malfoy interrupted impatiently, “if nothing else.”

Harry whispered something in his ear, and the boy crumpled in on himself, turning his face into Harry’s neck. Harry kissed his temple and wrapped an arm around his waist, letting Malfoy curl up against him.

Dumbledore regarded the tender scene with distaste.

He very much doubted Malfoy was as shaken up as he appeared to be. No, it was far more likely that the Slytherin was using Harry’s good nature against him, manipulating him for his own ends. Dumbledore could only hope that Harry was doing some manipulating of his own in return. His control was slipping, and it was imperative that he rein the boy in again. That would go much easier if Harry’s feelings were also a deception.

“It’s all very odd,” Madam Pomfrey sighed. “If there is a transfer of magic occurring, it is clearly two-way, and despite such an incredible output of magic, it is not draining them in any normal way I can discern. And I can see no reason why Mr Potter should experience such incidents only while he was experiencing arousal, whereas Mr Malfoy –”

“What _was_ your mental state just prior to the incident, Mr Malfoy?” Dumbledore queried.

“He was upset, sir,” Harry jumped in. “Really upset. And no, we’re not going to talk about it.”

Dumbledore saw the way Malfoy relaxed against him. That, at least, appeared to be genuine relief. “I see,” he said, slowly. “I’m sorry to be indelicate, but were _you_ , ah, in a state of excitement, my dear boy?”

“No!” Harry yelped. His face turned bright red, and he avoided Dumbledore’s eyes. “Of course not! We were talking about the trial, and they’d just been talking about the night Justin’s mum and sister were killed – of _course_ I wasn’t –”

“Of course, Harry,” Madam Pomfrey reassured him. “We just had to be sure. We’re trying to figure out what’s happening to you both before something worse happens.”

Harry deflated. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Mental states,” Miss Granger said, suddenly. She bent to rummage through her schoolbag. “I think…” She trailed off, emerging with a large book. Parkinson tucked her wand away at last, walking over to her.

Dumbledore frowned, opening his mouth to ask what the girl had thought of. But at that moment Severus pushed through the door to the infirmary. He held up two vials. “Ah, Severus!” Dumbledore said. “Excellent. Poppy, I take it the boys are fit enough to endure the diagnostic potions?”

She nodded.

Harry’s eyebrows snapped together. “Endure?”

Severus bared his teeth in a grin. “This particular procedure requires a high level of physical and mental effort on your part, Mr Potter. Mr Malfoy, at least, I am sure is up to the task.”

Harry glared at him, but didn’t respond. Dumbledore was surprised. Not too long ago, Harry would have snapped back at such a taunt.

Severus, too, appeared surprised, and then disgruntled. “These potions are expensive, extremely difficult to brew, and require ingredients that are not easily obtainable," he said, scowling. "Therefore, I have only enough for one _small_ swallow each, and you will have to follow Madam Pomfrey’s instructions to the letter.” He held up the bright green one. “This will illuminate the paths of magic in your bodies, and direct you to follow them to your cores. This,” he held up the other one, filled with a thick, dull yellow liquid, “will allow Madam Pomfrey to follow you in.”

“Paths?” Harry said, uncomprehending.

Dumbledore was reminded again just how little the boy knew about magic. Growing up in a pureblood household, himself, he often forgot the very simple, basic things that Muggleborns never learnt growing up. It was one of the many factors that had led to his decision to leave Harry with the Dursleys, all those years ago, but it never ceased to surprise him still.

“Much like our veins, or nerve pathways,” Malfoy explained. “Every single cell in your body is suffused with magic.” He traced a finger up Harry’s arm. “Our cores supply that magic through pathways. They can be obstructed, or re-routed – for example if you have an injury or illness, or there is an emotional trauma.”

“That sounds like chakras,” Hermione said in interest, looking up from her book. “I thought that was another erroneous Muggle idea of magic, like telepathy or numerology.”

“Mm,” Malfoy agreed, not really paying attention. His finger was on Harry’s lips, now, and Harry was gazing at him in something very much like adoration.

Dumbledore felt a chill go through him. He’d seized on the idea that Harry’s proclaimed love for Malfoy was a lie. He couldn’t bear the thought that he might have been wrong; that Harry did truly love him. It could destroy everything he’d worked for this year, everything he’d sacrificed. He would not allow it to continue. He _could_ not.

They would have to be separated, as soon as possible.

~*~

Madam Pomfrey ushered everyone firmly out, ignoring their protests. Pansy left with another warning glare at Harry, but Madam Pomfrey agreed to allow Ron and Hermione to wait in her office – “you can see them afterwards, but only for a little while; they will be quite tired” – and gave Hermione a huge pile of books to peruse in the meantime.

Harry chuckled. “She’ll never get rid of her now.”

“Potter,” Snape said.

Harry sighed as the curtain was drawn again, blocking his view. “Yes, sir?”

“There's no need for you to be on the same bed as Mr Malfoy. In fact, it is quite inappropriate, under the circumstances.” Harry stared at him, but Snape just pointed at the next bed. “ _Now_ , Potter.”

Harry frowned and scrambled off the bed, but not before he gave Draco a reassuring smile and a quick kiss.

“That's ten points from Gryffindor!” Snape snapped. “And there will be more if you continue your defiance. Mr Malfoy does _not_ appreciate being treated as your play-toy.”

“Au contraire, professor,” Draco drawled, before Harry could even open his mouth. He raised his eyebrows at Snape. “I very _much_ like being Harry’s play-toy.”

Harry bit down on a grin. Watching Draco go toe-to-toe with Snape was so much better than having his own, heated argument with the man, and then serving detention for days afterwards.

Snape flushed. “Five points from Slytherin, Mr Malfoy!” he said. “Mr Potter, do not make me ask you again!”

“Now, now, Severus,” Madam Pomfrey said, bustling in. “Don’t upset them. I need them both calm and happy for this. I think a little chocolate is indicated, first of all. Eat up, dears.”

She handed them each a large piece of chocolate, and Draco sighed. “This is getting to be hell on my figure, Potter,” he said, reprovingly. “You know I’m not on the Quidditch team anymore.”

Harry looked him up and down. “You look fine from where I’m sitting,” he said, playfully. He waited a beat, and then said, “Still, I certainly wouldn’t object to a little more to grip, when I fuck you.”

Draco sucked in a breath, and his eyelids fell in a way that Harry knew meant he was trying to hide something. Arousal, in this case, and Harry grinned.

“Mr Potter!” Madam Pomfrey said, scandalised. “I ought to _Scourgify_ your mouth out!”

Harry flinched, smile falling away. He had a very clear memory from when he was about five years old, of a circus in a neighbouring town, and pleading to go and see the magicians with their wonderful tricks. Needless to say, his aunt and uncle had been furious, and Aunt Petunia had washed his mouth out with a bar of soap and scalding water. The burns had been gone by the next morning, but he’d been sick with the taste of soap in his mouth for days afterward. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said, quietly.

Madam Pomfrey looked a little taken aback by his reaction. “All right, Potter,” she said, patting his shoulder awkwardly. “Eat up, and give me another smile.”

Harry nibbled on his chocolate unenthusiastically, until he caught a glare from Snape, and then he hurriedly stuffed the rest in his mouth.

“Honestly, Potter,” Draco sighed. “Where are your manners? You kiss me with that mouth.”

Harry smiled reluctantly. “So I do,” he said, with a cautious glance at Madam Pomfrey. She just nodded encouragingly, and he swallowed the chocolate. The familiar warmth spread through him, and he relaxed. “What’s next?”

“The potions,” she said, and Snape handed them the vials. “Half each, and then lie back, if you would,” she directed. “Although… why are you on separate beds? Harry, love, get up. Severus, if you would help him push the beds together…?”

Snape looked outraged, and Harry had to fight a smirk. He helped Snape push the beds together, swallowed a small mouthful of each vial, and then laid down as close as possible to Draco.

He knew the amused, laid-back veneer Draco had been attempting to present ever since the earthquake was just that: a veneer. Under that fragile surface, Draco was exhausted, his emotions in turmoil. He was terrified at the loss of control over his magic, terrified for his mother, terrified that he wasn’t going to complete his task in time…

It made Harry’s own, conflicted emotions seem trivial in comparison.

He slid his hand over, and wasn’t surprised to find Draco’s hand already there, reaching for him.

“Now, close your eyes,” Madam Pomfrey said. “And concentrate on finding the place inside you where your magic springs from. It’s different for everyone, so I can’t tell you where exactly it will be. The potion will drive you to look. Just follow your instincts.”

 _Right_ , Harry thought. That sounded about as helpful as Snape’s instruction on Occlumency. But he closed his eyes obediently. He was beginning to feel odd. Almost dreamlike. Every beat of his heart was sending magic thrumming through his veins, a feeling of warmth and comfort spreading through his whole body. Chocolate didn’t even come _close_ to this _._

He could feel the ‘paths’ Draco had told him about, and he could feel Madam Pomfrey urging him to follow them. He resisted, at first, until someone squeezed his hand, and he realised he could feel Draco, too; a steady, comforting presence at his side.

Harry sighed and let go, sliding gently into the pathways. He drifted, for a while, and found himself floating in toward a central point, Madam Pomfrey following in his wake.

When he reached the centre, Harry could feel the way his magic was churning around a dark mass, not quite naturally. He didn’t like it. It felt wrong, somehow. Madam Pomfrey was doing something – dipping her fingers in and stirring around. It was uncomfortable, and Harry left his core open to her and went back to drifting in the pathways.

He could feel himself tiring, but Madam Pomfrey was urging him not to let go just yet. He reached out, and felt Draco answer him. He smiled, that warm, gentle sunshine filling his soul again, giving him strength. He barely felt it when Madam Pomfrey jerked back, and then went back in with renewed vigour.

All Harry could think about was Draco, and how _good_ it was to be close to him, despite everything.

“All right,” Madam Pomfrey said, softly. “You can come back now, boys.”

~*~

Madam Pomfrey left them alone for a moment, and Harry rolled on top of Draco. “All right?” he asked.

Draco sighed, shifting his legs apart to let Harry settle between them. It was a comfortable position for them, now; familiar and enjoyable. “I’m fine,” he said. “Pomfrey looked a bit rattled, though.”

“Did you feel it?” Harry asked, thoroughly distracted by the memory of touching Draco’s magic. “Us, I mean. Not the potions. It was like… you know when you lie on earth that has been heated all day by the sun, and it’s warm against your back? And everything’s bright and cheerful, and the sun is soft and warm against your skin...”

Draco shook his head. “It was nothing like that for me. If I had to describe it, I’d say it was like that cool, fresh breeze on Christmas morning, when the ground is covered in snow and there’s the scent of pine needles in the air, and you can hear Muggle church bells chiming sweetly in the distance.” He rolled his eyes. “Merlin. Listen to me, waxing poetic like a bloody Gryffindor.”

“I just might fall in love with you all over again,” Harry joked. “Why do you think we felt different things?”

“I think I can answer that,” Madam Pomfrey said.

Harry rolled off Draco quickly, blushing furiously. “Sorry, ma’am,” he said.

“Don’t apologise, dear,” she said. “I’m starting to wonder if your almost compulsive need to touch is part of whatever magic this is. I do not believe it is something you can control, and perhaps you should not.” She eyed Harry’s hand, which had somehow tangled itself again with Draco’s. Harry’s flush deepened, but he didn’t let go. She nodded. “What you just experienced was your souls, touching. Obviously you each felt something different because it was the other’s soul.”

Harry blinked in surprise. “The potions can do that?”

“No. The two potions you drank were diagnostic only. They allowed me to more closely examine your magic, and interpret your cores in a meaningful way. That’s all.”

“It wasn’t the potions,” Draco agreed. “It happened in the courtroom, too, but only very briefly, remember?”

“And you think that was our souls?” Harry said, sceptically. “Is that even possible?”

“It is rare, admittedly,” Pomfrey said. “But what you each just described is congruent with what I saw inside you. Your magical core, Mr Malfoy, is located at the base of your spine, indicating you are rooted and grounded in the earth. It is associated with self-preservation and survival instincts, and a very physical awareness of your body and self.”

Harry chuckled. “I don’t think you have to be worried about being mistaken for anything but a Slytherin, Draco.”

“Shut it, Potter,” Draco said, but he looked pleased.

“Actually, he’s right, Mr Malfoy,” Madam Pomfrey said. “There has long been shown to be a correlation between certain character traits and the location of magical centres. Mr Potter, your core is located in the centre of your chest. Your heart. It’s associated with compassion and love, an ability to love deeply and without reservation. It also indicates a strong connection with the air and wind; a free spirit.”

 _A free spirit_ , Harry thought. Somehow he knew exactly what she meant. He loved flying, but that wasn’t it. There was a fierce desire within him: to be free, _truly_ free. From the Dursleys, from the prophecy, from the hero worship and weighty expectations and constant criticism from the whole wizarding world, from people he’d never even _met_ , who thought they knew him and had some kind of claim on him.

But what he wanted, what he _really_ wanted, was to belong. To have a family. To be loved. Hermione had been right about that, at least. And yet it was precisely what he couldn’t have. He was the Chosen One, and anyone who loved him was in danger. He wasn’t free to love. Maybe he never would be.

“What’s that got to do with our souls?” he asked.

“A wizard’s magical core is his soul,” Madam Pomfrey explained. “Or, at least, a reflection of it. And what I saw is something I have never seen in all my years of practice; the colours of your souls, reaching out to each other and intertwining. It was almost blinding in its beauty. And it explains how you were able to ‘share’ your magic. As for why neither of you were drained from such an outburst of magic, I still cannot say.”

“Are you saying our magic is _linked_?” Draco said, incredulously.

Madam Pomfrey nodded. “By multiple pathways connecting your cores.”

“But how?” Draco demanded. “When? It must have been a spell – a curse –”

“That I don’t know yet,” she said. “I will need time to study my findings before I can tell you more. One thing is clear, however: that we have been looking at this all wrong. Our premise was that these incidents were somehow associated with Mr Potter’s arousal, and thus that this magic would have manifested itself in him eventually, no matter his partner. Part of his genetic make-up; an inheritance from an ancestor long forgotten, perhaps.”

“Inheritance?” Harry asked.

“A gift,” Draco explained. “Some kind of unusual ability, magical in nature, like your Parseltongue. But unlike your Parseltongue, usually received at a wizard’s coming of age, not birth.” He frowned. “It _is_ odd, that.”

Harry resisted the urge to touch his scar, looking at Madam Pomfrey. “But you don’t think it is, ma’am?”

“Clearly not,” she said. “As you have been insisting all afternoon, that explosion of unpremeditated magic in the courtroom did not come from you, but unquestionably from Mr Malfoy.”

Harry nodded. “And then our magic joined somehow, to stop it.”

“You keep saying ‘it’,” Madam Pomfrey observed. “Like you weren’t stopping his magic, but something else.”

Harry shrugged, and Draco yawned. “Sorry,” he said, looking embarrassed. “I don’t think we can tell you anything else. May we go now?”

“Actually, you will both be staying for several hours, at least,” she said. “That was harder on you than I thought it would be. I want you to sleep. Your friends can wait.”

“But it’s almost dinner-time,” Harry protested. “We won’t be able to sleep a wink tonight.” He stopped, realising that Draco was leaning rather heavily against him. “Draco?” There was a very soft snore, and Madam Pomfrey chuckled, drawing the curtain behind her as she left. “Never mind, then,” Harry muttered, settling Draco more comfortably in his arms.

He had the vague idea of watching his lover sleep until dinner, and then maybe pleading his case again to Madam Pomfrey... but he yawned, too, and was fast asleep in no time.

~*~

He woke to sunlight streaming in through the open window.

“Fuck,” Draco muttered, into his shoulder. “It’s bloody _morning_. Another night wasted.”

Harry winced, digging in his robes for the Time-Turner. “Sorry,” he said. “Just, you’ll be so tired...”

“Three hours,” Draco said.

Harry looked at him in surprise. “You’d – really? Three hours? You’d do that for me?”

“Yes,” Draco said, simply. He sighed, and stretched, leaning up to kiss him.

Harry was so pleased that he let Draco roll him over and press him down into the mattress, rocking gently against him. He could feel himself responding, his breath quickening, cock filling. The devastating urge to just wrap his legs around Draco’s hips and arch up.

But that was how it had been with Justin. And it had been necessary, then. He’d been the virgin, and Justin his teacher. It was different with Draco. They were on an equal footing, and Draco submitted to him willingly, enthusiastically. And if Harry couldn’t quite understand that, or how the sex could be so much more satisfying than it had been with Justin, at least he could enjoy it while it lasted. He thought he might even be able enjoy being on the bottom again someday, if it was with Draco.

Just not today.

He rolled them, biting under Draco's jaw, sucking at his pulse point until Draco was hot and panting under him, wrapping his legs around Harry’s waist and arching up into him, exactly the way Harry had wanted to do. So _easy_ in his submission. Harry envied that.

“Three hours,” he breathed into Draco’s ear. Draco shivered. “But don’t go back now. Use today, while we’re at the trial. If you’re up in the Room, no one will see you.”

Draco stared up at the ceiling, silent, his head tilted back and throat exposed. Harry scraped his teeth down that pale, perfect skin, and Draco clutched at Harry’s shoulders, shuddering. “All right,” he allowed.

Harry smiled. “I want to fuck you.”

“You always want to fuck me,” Draco said, dryly. “Unfortunately, I don’t think we’ve been given carte blanche to have sex in the infirmary, just because Madam Pomfrey appears to have accepted our inability to keep our hands off each other. Not to mention my utter _lack_ of an exhibitionist streak.”

Harry pouted. “You started it.”

Draco focused almost as if against his will on Harry’s lips. “So I did,” he said, glancing at the curtains surrounding their bed. There was no movement beyond; not a sound. Harry held his breath, wondering if Draco was actually considering it. “Lift up a bit.”

Harry rose to his hands and knees quickly. Draco divested them of their robes and under-clothes, and then his hands were on Harry’s arse, urging him to thrust down. Harry forgot the risk they were taking, forgot everything but that wonderful slip and slide – again, and again, and again, rutting against his lover’s soft, warm skin, the smooth dip in Draco’s hip, lowering his head to find the bruise from yesterday, close his teeth around it and worry at it, making sure the mark did not fade.

“Mine,” he murmured.

Draco made a stifled noise. “Harry,” he whimpered.

Harry covered his mouth with his hand. “Shh...”

Draco licked his hand, and Harry gasped, losing his rhythm for a moment. And then Draco’s hands gripped his hips, and their cocks slid together in a way that had Harry biting so hard into his fist that he drew blood. It couldn’t muffle his scream of completion completely, especially when Draco cried out, voice trapped behind Harry’s hand, and Harry felt his cock slide through the slick, wet heat of Draco’s semen.

He let himself collapse, rolling onto his side and drawing Draco into his arms. “That was _brilliant_ ,” he sighed.

Draco just smirked at him, casting a healing spell over Harry’s teeth marks. “You really do have a penchant for self-harm, don’t you, Potter?”

“In that case, you have a penchant for masochism,” Harry retorted. “You can’t hide how much you like my teeth in your skin.”

“Mm,” Draco agreed, mildly. “I also seem to keep letting you have your way with me without any of that ‘reciprocation’ you keep promising.”

Harry flinched. “Draco – I –”

“You’re not ready,” Draco said, more gently than he deserved. “I understand.”

“Do you?” Harry said, hopefully. “You know it’s not you –”

Draco smirked again. “Oh, I know _that_ ,” he said, with careless self-assurance. “But,” he continued, and Harry found himself caught, helpless in the intensity of his gaze, “when I _do_ fuck you – and I will, eventually, Harry – you’ll cry, and beg, and _scream_ for me.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for your kudos and lovely comments. I look forward to each one! xx

**CHAPTER TEN**

**ROCK MY WORLD**

Part Two

Madam Pomfrey examined Harry and Draco carefully (excruciatingly carefully) before declaring them ready for discharge, and shooing them out the door. Unfortunately, it was too late for breakfast by then, so Harry resigned himself to going hungry to the trial.

Then Hermione and Ron turned the corner, carrying two loaded breakfast trays. Harry grinned, turning to Draco.

Draco shook his head. “I have to go,” he said, apologetically.

“Yeah,” Harry sighed. “Three hours?”

“I’ll meet you in the Entrance Hall,” Draco agreed, and kissed him goodbye. His shoulders tensed as he neared Ron and Hermione. Harry watched him thoughtfully, aware that, once upon a time, he never would have seen it. Or, if he had, he would have assumed it was simple dislike, or maybe that Draco was readying himself for another round of barbed insults.

He knew now that it was fear. Fear of a threat to his task, his mother, his life. It made Harry wonder when Draco had stopped being afraid of _him_.

“Malfoy,” Hermione greeted. Ron just nodded stiffly.

“Granger, Weasley,” Draco said, and brushed past them.

“Hey, Draco,” Harry called. Draco paused, turning slightly. “Take your breakfast,” Harry said, nodding at Hermione’s tray.

Draco frowned, but Hermione held out the tray towards him with a nervous expression. With another, indecipherable look at Harry, Draco took it. Ron was very still and tense beside her, but Hermione’s face broke into a shy smile, and Harry felt his heart skip a beat. If Draco did something, or said something, to hurt her, right at this moment...

But Draco said genuinely, “Thank you, Granger.”

Harry _beamed_ ; he couldn’t help it. Draco glanced back at him and rolled his eyes, but there was an undeniable, if small, smile on his face as he walked away.

“The world’s gone mad,” Ron complained.

Harry snorted. “And you’re only just noticing?” He pointed at the other tray. “That one for me?”

Ron handed it over with a sigh, and Hermione gestured to a nearby alcove. “It’s a pity we didn’t get here sooner,” she said. “I needed to talk to both of you.”

Harry took a seat on the stone bench as she cast an Imperturbable Charm around the alcove to protect them from prying ears. “You’ve found something?” he asked, digging into his breakfast hungrily. The tray was overflowing with eggs, bacon, sausages, mushrooms, toast _dripping_ with butter, hash browns, pumpkin juice and a piping hot cup of tea. He was pretty sure he could eat the lot and still have room left over.

“It’s just a theory, so far,” Hermione said. “But if Malfoy really is experiencing the same magic as you, it seems unlikely he would have a different trigger. I just don't think it can be a coincidence that you were – _you know_ , each time. So that means there was something else happening at the same time.”

Harry frowned. “Like what?”

Ron tried to steal a slice of bacon, and Harry slapped his hand. “Oi!” Ron said, in an injured tone.

Hermione shook her head at them. “Intimacy,” she said. “Each time it happened, you were close to Malfoy. Out of necessity, yes, but you’d never really experienced that kind of intimacy before, had you? So the feelings it engendered would have been powerful. Powerful enough that whatever this is manifested itself in you first.”

Harry frowned, focusing on tearing his toast apart with his fingers. It was true that intimacy was not exactly a word he’d use to describe what he’d had with Justin. It was also true that he was oddly comfortable with Draco. He remembered wondering what it would be like, as a child, to be hugged and kissed and fussed over like Dudley was. To know with absolute assurance that he was loved.

Sometimes, when he was inside Draco, and Draco looked up at him with his heart in his eyes… sometimes he wondered if that was it. If that was love.

But of course it wasn’t. It couldn’t be. Draco deserved better than that. Better than _him_.

“What about Draco?” he asked.

“You told us he was upset,” Hermione said. “I’m going to hazard a guess it was about his mother.”

Harry nodded slowly. He remembered the image he’d seen in Draco’s mind in the courtroom, of a dreadful monster biting down into a woman’s broken body. The woman had to be Narcissa, and the monster Greyback. Draco was obviously terrified beyond all reason of him, to the point where his recollection of the werewolf had been distorted.

And not unjustifiably so, Harry thought.

He was pretty fucking determined that Greyback would never get within twenty feet of Draco, let alone hurt him. He just wished he could make the same vow for Narcissa. Unfortunately, that was up to Draco, and Draco was too scared to let him share that burden yet.

“Powerful feelings,” Hermione said. “He cares for his mother deeply, and the anger and fear for her safety caused this magic to manifest in him when he actually allowed himself to feel those emotions, in the courtroom yesterday.”

“So it has nothing to do with _us_ ,” Harry said, a little puzzled.

“On the contrary. It has everything to do with you,” Hermione corrected him. “You’ve both experienced powerful emotions before now without causing earthquakes or involuntary Apparitions. Madam Pomfrey says it’s all related to the pathways between you. That's why this is happening. How else can we explain what you did in that courtroom? I think any kind of very strong emotion from either of you, or both of you, will result in a kind of shared magic that is far beyond the ability of a single wizard, or even a bonded couple.”

Harry looked down at his half-finished meal, appetite suddenly gone. “Well,” he said, resigned. “That’s not disturbing at all.”

~*~

Ginny hurried down the Great Staircase, relieved to see Harry still in the Entrance Hall with Professor Flitwick. What with the trial all day, detention every night, and Draco sodding Malfoy dogging his steps the rest of the time, it felt like she hadn’t had opportunity to talk to him in _days_.

“Harry!” she called, when she was within earshot.

He looked up, smiling reflexively. And then, just as quickly, his smile twisted into something more complicated, and Ginny’s stomach sank. She knew she had a bit of a – reputation, but honest to all the Founders, she would have given up every single boy she’d ever been with if only Harry had ever looked at her like he looked at Malfoy.

And then for him to have seen her coming out of Blaise’s room like that... it was _unbearable_.

“Hey, Gin,” he said, drawing her off to one side. “Everything all right?”

“Fine,” she said, trying to smile. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. And to apologise to you, for yesterday morning.”

“You don’t have to apologise,” Harry frowned. “You don’t answer to me. Anyway, I’m sleeping with a Slytherin, too, so I couldn’t point fingers even if you did. Which you don’t. At all.”

He looked so painfully awkward that Ginny felt herself melt. “I remember how much Justin meant to you,” she said, gently, “and how hurt you were when he broke up with you. This trial must be really hard on you. Especially pretending to be on _Malfoy’s_ side.”

Harry scuffed his shoe against the floor. “Yeah, I guess. But, you know –”

“And the way you disappeared by the lake on Sunday,” Ginny said, pursing her lips. “I _told_ Professor Snape you wouldn’t play a prank like that.”

“Uh, no, that – that was kind of a bet, Gin,” Harry said apologetically. “Between Draco and I.”

“Oh.” Ginny blinked. “So, the Ministry yesterday? Another bet gone wrong?”

“Something like that,” Harry agreed, evasively.

It was like trying to get blood from a stone, Ginny reflected, annoyed. “Well,” she said, rallying, “ _I_ know you’re not the out-of-control monster they’re making you out to be. It was just a mistake. And I’ll stand by you no matter what, Harry.”

His smile was more genuine this time.

Ginny relaxed, pleased. “So, how’s The Plan coming?” she asked.

“Uh. Okay?” Harry offered, and then winced at her look. “It’s hard, I guess. But I think I’m making progress. I hope.”

Ginny patted his arm reassuringly. As always, he flinched slightly at her touch, and then smiled at her apologetically. Ginny had often fantasised about the way she would cure him of that habit. “It must be awful,” she said, a little too sharply, “having to _sleep_ with the enemy.”

Harry hesitated. “I guess it was, a bit,” he said. “Not because I didn’t like it. I did. I do _._ But I felt like I was selling myself for the cause; like I was betraying him, and myself. Until –”

Ginny found herself holding her breath, and she let it go in a whoosh. “Until?” she prompted.

Harry shrugged. “Until I fell in love with him for real, I guess.”

Ginny gasped. “No! No, Harry, you’re deluding yourself –”

“No, I’m not,” Harry said, frowning at her in a way she didn’t like. “I’m in love with him, Ginny.”

“Always gratifying to hear,” a voice drawled, and Malfoy wrapped his arms around Harry from behind, propping his chin on Harry’s shoulder. Harry startled, and then relaxed.

Ginny stared at Malfoy, anger and jealousy twisting in her gut. “Where the hell did _you_ come from?” she demanded.

Malfoy ignored her. “Three hours,” he said, kissing Harry’s cheek in a nauseating display of public affection.

Ginny started to look away, but her attention was caught by the smile on Harry’s face. Obviously there was genuine, and then there was a _whole_ other category for Malfoy.

“Thank you, sweetheart,” Harry said. “Did you get much done?”

“I’m no farther along than I was yesterday, or the day before,” Malfoy said. “Is that what you want to hear, Potter?” His voice was hollow, and Ginny noticed his eyes were tired, almost haunted. She couldn’t help but be pleased. If Malfoy really was the one who had almost killed Ron and Katie, and he was planning to _murder_ someone else… well, she was glad he was suffering.

The fact that he could make Harry smile like he’d never smiled at anyone else before had absolutely nothing to do with it.

Harry sighed, turning in Malfoy’s arms. “I want to hear that you’ve come to your senses and will accept my offer of protection. You know I’d keep my word to protect your parents, too. I just want you _safe_.”

His voice broke a little on the last word, and Malfoy closed his eyes. They leaned in to rest their foreheads together, almost unconsciously, and Ginny got the sudden sense that she was somehow intruding. As if their world had narrowed until it was only the two of them, and the rest of the world didn’t matter.

As if Ginny didn’t matter.

She took a step back, her own world tilting sideways. Harry was in love with Malfoy. It was as plain as the wart on a goblin’s nose, and just as horrifying.

Tears pricked at her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. She knew she could be a bit oblivious at times, but at least she knew when to admit she’d been beaten. No matter how much she disliked the Prince of Slytherin, no matter how stupid she thought Harry was for falling for his lies…

Well, that was that. She wasn’t going to subject herself to any more pain, trying to compete with a _Death Eater_. Not even for Harry Potter.

~*~

“Mr Potter, if you would state your relationship to the defendant for the court, please.”

Harry hunched his shoulders. After the destruction of the courtroom yesterday, Justin’s trial had been moved next door, and it was almost exactly the same, except that this witness chair had heavy chains that rattled menacingly as he sat down. He wondered if it was deliberate; if he was being punished for his insolence the day before. If so, it was effective. He felt like a criminal. Exactly how it had been in fifth year, with the Wizengamot’s stern faces glaring down at him.

“I go to school with Justin,” he said, clearing his throat nervously. “And, uh, he’s my ex.”

A murmur went through the stands.

“Ex-boyfriend?” Madam Primrose clarified, and Harry nodded.

“Please state your reply aloud for the court, Mr Potter,” Pius Thicknesse said, leaning forward. He nodded at a small booth opposite Percy Weasley, where a witch Harry hadn’t noticed before sat with a quick-quotes quill. He winced, hoping it wasn’t the same type Rita Skeeter used.

“Sorry,” he said, clearing his throat. “Yes.”

Another murmur, louder this time. Harry sighed. His coming out had been buried amongst the coverage of the trial over the past couple of days, but he had the sinking feeling it would be promoted to front page news, tomorrow. Or tonight, Merlin forbid, if someone decided that it was important enough to warrant a special edition of the Prophet.

“I take it there were no hard feelings about the break-up, if you’re speaking as a character witness for the defendant? You volunteered, in fact. You weren’t even invited.”

 _Or rather, Dumbledore_ _forced me on you_ , Harry thought, grimly amused. And if Hermione and Madam Pomfrey hadn’t done the same for Draco, this trial would have been even shorter and more ludicrously biased than it already was. “No, no hard feelings,” he said.

“You know Justin well, then?”

“Pretty well,” Harry said, fighting a blush. Bloody hell, that was just what he needed; the newspapers insinuating _how well_ he’d known Justin. He looked at Draco, then, sitting proud and tall on the bench in the front row, isolated from everyone, but still strong, not allowing himself to be intimidated. Harry took strength from that. “Justin got me through one of the worst times in my life. He was a true friend, and a loyal boyfriend.”

 _So loyal he kicked you to the curb as soon as you handed him your virginity_ , said a voice in his head.

“Can you tell the court a bit about the defendant’s best qualities?”

Harry glanced at Justin, and suddenly all his words went flying right out of his head.

Caring _._ _Don’t you remember how cruel he was, the morning after? How he avoided your touch like you had some kind of fucking disease?_

Compassionate. _“Get out, Harry. We're done.”_

Honest _._ _Manipulating you into bed with sweet nothings; shamelessly using your grief against you..._

“He –” Harry swallowed dryly, trying to think. And then he noticed Justin’s friends, and his father, all sitting on the edges of their seats. “He’s a Hufflepuff,” he said, relieved. “A good friend. A good mentor.” Bobby Baskin smiled shyly and waved, and Harry smiled back. He’d got that right, then; the Hufflepuffs did a sort-of mentorship program between the upper and lower years. Justin was Bobby’s, obviously. “He’s hard-working, and brave, and he’s a good son. And he loves – _loved_ his mother and sister a great deal. He talked about Paige all the time. And I truly believe he would never have attacked Draco like that if he hadn’t been in shock, and grieving for them.”

“Thank you, Mr Potter,” Madam Primrose said, bowing.

“On the other hand,” Harry continued, “he almost _killed_ Draco, and used an Unforgivable on him.” He turned to the judges. “An _Unforgivable_. You can’t just ignore that, or we’re no better than Voldemort and his followers.” Gasps and cries of fear filled the courtroom, many from the Wizengamot itself. Harry scowled. “You’re giving him power over you he doesn’t deserve!” he shouted. “It’s just a name!”

“You are in contempt of court, Mr Potter!” Scrimgeour said, sharply.

“For saying his _name_?!” Harry demanded. “How are we going to fight him if you’re all too scared to even say his name?”

“Is that what this is about, Mr Potter?” said a girlish voice. He stiffened, glaring up at Umbridge. “After all, you yourself have used an Unforgivable in the past, have you not? The very same Unforgivable, in fact, that Mr Finch-Fletchley has been accused of using. And yet you went unpunished for it. Do you feel that you should be punished? That you are, indeed, no better than You-Know-Who and his followers?”

The courtroom was dead silent.

Harry stared at her, gaping. “W-what?”

“This is a very serious accusation, Madam Umbridge,” Scrimgeour said, looking shocked.

“Yes, indeed,” Umbridge simpered. “But I think you’ll find that Mr Potter does not deny it. After all,” she said, meeting Harry's eyes maliciously, “he knows very well that _lies_ are not tolerated.”

Harry felt her words like a punch to the gut, winding him. Umbridge just smiled sweetly, and he dug his nails into the back of his hand, struggling to breathe.

“Mr Potter,” Pius Thicknesse said, gravely, “have you used the Cruciatus Curse?”

Harry hesitated, glancing at Draco. Draco shook his head slightly, but Harry knew he couldn’t lie. He didn’t know how Umbridge could possibly have found out about last year, but if he lied now and she proved it later, it would be far, far worse. “Y-yes, sir,” he said hoarsely, ignoring Umbridge’s smirk of triumph. There were gasps of horror from the crowd. “Once. On Bellatrix Lestrange. It was last year, during the attack on the Ministry. She had just murdered… someone very close to me.”

“Bellatrix Lestrange is a convicted Death Eater, Minister,” Madam Primrose interrupted, smoothly. “She is known to have directly and indirectly participated in countless cases of assault and murder during the last war, including the horrific murders of the Prewett brothers, and the torture of the Longbottom couple.”

“I doubt there is anyone here who doesn’t know the name Bellatrix Lestrange,” Scrimgeour said, impatiently.

“Indeed. And Mr Potter states he had just experienced the loss of someone he cared for deeply at her wand,” Primrose said. “There is precedent, Minister, set down in case law, for leniency in the use of Unforgivables under extreme emotional duress. Babbins, Hardbucket, and Rockweather, to name a few.”

She handed a sheaf of papers to the panel of judges, and Pius Thicknesse flicked through them, his thin eyebrows drawn together in a frown.

Harry stared. It was almost like they had planned this.

Of course, it was possible that Madam Primrose had prepared this defence already, and was just taking advantage of the opportunity. But Umbridge… he couldn’t help feeling Umbridge had deliberately turned his testimony this way.

He looked up at the toad-like woman. She was sitting back in her chair, half in shadow. But he could just make out the wide, stretched smile on her face, eyes heavy-lidded with pleasure as she scanned the crowd.

Harry followed her gaze. Most people seemed to have stopped listening to Madam Primrose and the judges. They were pointing and staring at him instead, whispering urgently amongst themselves. A few had their hands over their mouths, looking ill, or appalled, or a combination of both. The reporters were writing furiously in their notepads, although a couple took advantage of the distraction to snap a camera in his direction.

 _Well_ , Harry thought with a certain black humour, _at least it won’t be my sexual orientation gracing the front pages tonight_.

~*~

The press descended on him immediately after the trial recessed for lunch, shouting questions.

 _Is your use of Dark magic related to your destructive loss of control yesterday, Mr Potter?_ _What can you tell us about the person Bellatrix Lestrange allegedly murdered? Why is this the first time we’re hearing about it? Are you involved in a cover-up? Who else is involved? Has your perverted relationship with Draco Malfoy contributed towards your moral deterioration and affinity for Dark magic?_

Harry was so incensed that Draco had to physically drag him away.

“Peverted!” he said, as they huddled together in a broom cupboard. “How dare they?! As if there’s anything wrong with it! Or you! As if it would make me Dark! Fucking Umbridge!”

“Her intention was to discredit you,” Draco said, calmly. “Which she very neatly did, I might add. Clearly she wants your reputation tarnished. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was receiving her orders directly from the Dark Lord.”

Harry scowled. “You think she’s a Death Eater?”

Draco shrugged. “She’s in a powerful position, and I suspect easily subverted. Not to mention, there’s a palpable aura of Dark magic around her. She’s been dabbling in the bad stuff, recently.”

Harry blinked. “You can feel that?”

“Mm,” Draco said. He looked still tired, even after a good night’s sleep. His cheeks were hollow, lines of tension at the corners of his mouth and eyes. “Like calls to like.”

Harry stiffened. “Don’t say that. Your soul – if that’s what I felt when we… it’s _beautiful_. Not Dark. Not even close.”

Draco sighed. “Thank you, Harry. But our magical cores don’t control or determine our actions. It is our actions that make a soul ugly. Evil.”

“Well, there’s nothing ugly or evil in you,” Harry said, firmly. “I saw it, remember? I touched it.”

Draco’s mouth twisted. “I’m a Death Eater, Potter. I’ve used Unforgivables, too. Not for any just purpose, but to _hurt_.”

Harry deflated. “You’re not the only one.” He’d wanted revenge; for Bellatrix to hurt the way she’d made him hurt. That wasn’t good, or right, or just. That was simply unforgivable.

Draco, on the other hand… Harry was willing to bet he’d never used an Unforgivable except under duress. Which didn’t make it better, exactly, but it did go to show that Sirius had been right. _The world isn’t split into good people and Death Eaters, Harry_. For the first time, he thought he really, truly understood what that meant.

“You couldn't even hold it,” Draco scoffed. “You're a good person. The fact that you’re a Light wizard is irrelevant. Umbridge is proof of that.”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “Umbridge is a Light witch? How could you possibly know that?”

Draco shrugged. “There are spells,” he said. “Most traditional purebloods, who still remember the true definition of Light and Dark, use them at birth. It’s rare, but not impossible, for Light wizards to be born into Dark families, and vice versa. But you can generally learn a wizard’s orientation by observation. I knew you were Light by the end of our first week at Hogwarts.”

“Yeah?” Harry said, wondering if he should be flattered or insulted. “What definition?”

“Merlin’s, actually,” Draco said. “Or, at least, it’s old enough to be.” He leaned into Harry’s shoulder, yawning. “Sure you want to know?”

Harry frowned. “Of course I do. If it’s important to you.”

“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Draco said. “It’s not exactly popular with your lot. History is written by the victors, as they say, and while Dark wizards have an unfortunate tendency towards anarchy, Light wizards tend strongly towards despotism. And those in power do so _love_ to be right. It’s led to more than one war over the centuries, and of course to our reputation for ‘evil’. But the truth is, Light and Dark are simply opposite, complementary aspects of the Wild Magic. Not good or evil, just types of magic.”

“Types of magic,” Harry echoed, slowly. “You mean like the Unforgivables?”

Draco sighed. “You wouldn’t blame a wand for the way it was wielded, would you? Magic is a tool, like any other. It’s your intention that matters. You can use _Lumos_ – a Light spell – to light your way, or to blind someone. The Severing Charm may be used to finish off a piece of knitting, or murder someone in cold blood. The Imperius Curse enslaves people against their will, but there is a whole community of witches and wizards who use it for exactly that purpose, consensually, during sex. Handing over control that way is, apparently, a powerful experience.”

Harry blinked. _Shades of grey_ , he thought. Just like Draco’s eyes. Just like Draco himself. “You can't use the other Unforgivables for good,” he pointed out.

“Perhaps not the Cruciatus Curse,” Draco acknowledged. “But my grandfather Abraxas chose to be euthanised with the Killing Curse when I was a child, because his body was so badly riddled with dragon pox that it would have been a long, agonising death otherwise. He had a good death, Potter. A dignified death, with his family around him. And yet our Healer, a Light witch, would have gone to Azkaban if the Ministry had ever found out.”

Harry was silent for a long moment, digesting that. “So if Light wizards can use Dark magic,” he said, “and the other way around, what’s the difference?”

“Simply the category of spell,” Draco said. “Dark magic is the magic of chaos, deception, mystery, and fire. Life and death. Blood magic, sex magic. Light magic, on the other hand, is the magic of heart and home, earth and nature; order, truth and healing. As a Light wizard, you have a natural inclination and aptitude for Light forms of magic, just as I do for Dark magic.”

“Okay,” Harry said, slowly. “But we have a whole subject dedicated to Defence Against the Dark Arts. And the Auror Corp’s whole mandate is to catch Dark wizards.”

“Technically, Dark wizards who commit crimes,” Draco said, wryly. “But I understand your confusion. If the Ministry had its way, they’d round up the lot of us. Fortunately, it’s illegal to arrest a wizard solely on the basis of being Dark, and even the Ministry can’t undo laws set down by Merlin himself. Still, that doesn’t stop the systematic harassment and discrimination, raids against law-abiding businesses and households, confiscating harmless artifacts, banning our rituals and traditions…”

“They raided your home when we were in second year,” Harry remembered.

“Several times,” Draco agreed. “And more than several times since. Paranoia is on the rise since the Dark Lord’s return.”

“Those weren’t ‘harmless artifacts’ your father got rid of, in second year,” Harry pointed out.

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “How do you even know about that?” he said. Harry just smiled, and shrugged. Draco’s brows twitched together. “But you’re right, as usual. Dark magic can be dangerous. And yet the wizarding world couldn’t do without it. Blood magic is the basis of almost every ancestral home’s wards in England, including Light families. Sex magic is used in marriage bonds. Some of the most powerful protective Charms are Dark magic. There are evil uses for Dark magic, just as there are evil uses for Light magic. It’s a _tool_ , Harry. You have Dark wizards fighting for your side, just as we have Light wizards fighting for us.”

“What?” Harry said, thrown by this sudden revelation. “Who?”

“Your beloved werewolf professor comes to mind.”

Harry blinked. “Remus isn’t Dark.”

“He’s a creature of the moon, and moon magic is Dark,” Draco said, patiently. “Vampires, werewolves and centaurs are all of the Dark. The Ministry can’t legally imprison them, but they can impose restrictions that make it practically impossible to live. There’s a reason you rarely meet a vampire or werewolf in Britain. They’ve all moved to the continent.”

Harry absorbed that. “It’s not the same in Europe?”

“Europeans are much more pragmatic that way,” Draco said. “Durmstrang, for instance. Their curriculum is designed solely for Dark wizards.” He shook his head. “Yet Hogwarts invited them to the Triwizard Tournament. The hypocrisy is astounding.”

Harry thought of Remus, ostracised from society, his only real job in almost fifteen years a short, one-year stint as a Hogwarts professor. He was nothing like Fenrir Greyback, and yet he'd been tarred by the same brush his entire life. “It was pretty much the first thing I learnt about the wizarding world,” he said. “That Dark wizards are bad. Slytherins are bad.” He paused. “Are all Slytherins –?”

Draco shook his head. “Of course not. Granted, Light wizards only make up approximately ten percent of our House at the moment, but before you ask, it doesn’t matter. It never has. The only thing that matters right now is whether you follow the Dark Lord or not.”

“Ohhh,” Harry breathed. Suddenly it all made sense. “He’s offering you a world where your blood and culture and magic isn’t discriminated against.” No wonder so many had flocked to his cause.

“Yes,” Draco agreed. “My father believes in that world. So do I.”

“So do I,” Harry said, and Draco’s eyebrows shot up. “What? Any sort of prejudice is wrong. Whether it’s against Dark wizards, or Muggleborns, or werewolves, or homosexuals. Or anyone.”

Draco looked at him contemplatively. “Perhaps,” he said. “But werewolves kill and infect people every full moon. Homosexuals cause the end of whole family lines. Dark wizards sometimes go mad. We don’t deny it.”

Harry frowned. “None of that is reason to discriminate. We were _born_ gay, Draco, just like Hermione was born to two Muggles. The bite was forced on Remus, and he’d never hurt a fly. Voldemort is using all this – this prejudice and hatred to manipulate his followers. He wants power, that’s all. Even if he used that power to make things better, which he won’t, the ends don’t justify the means. You hate what he’s made you do. What he’s making you do.”

Draco sighed. “There are always casualties in war, Potter. My soul isn’t important in the grand scheme of things.”

“It's important to _me_ ,” Harry retorted. “Draco, you're important to me.”

Draco’s eyes softened. “I know,” he said. “Merlin help me.”

Harry smiled. “I love you,” he said, and a flush spread across Draco's cheeks. Harry couldn’t help it; he kissed him.

“Mmph,” Draco protested, but he didn’t break away.

Harry didn’t deepen it, although he was tempted. Instead, he eased back. “You’re wrong, you know,” he said. “No matter what you’ve done. Your soul’s still beautiful.”

Draco looked conflicted. “I suppose we’ll have to agree to disagree on that.”

~*~

Lunch was an hour, so they still had some time to fill, even after Harry snuck out with his Invisibility Cloak to fetch them something to eat.

“There’s a spell I want to teach you,” Draco said, idly, as he cleaned his hands with his wand. “Capable of shielding you from the Killing Curse. Dark magic, of course, but easy enough for a powerful Light wizard to master.”

“Uh –” Harry said, but Draco was already standing and lifting his wand. He cast a number of protective enchantments around the cupboard, and was out of breath and shaking by the time he’d finished.

Harry grabbed him as he stumbled. “What the hell was that?” he demanded. “Draco, stop. You’re _exhausted_ –”

“It’s just the ward to prevent the detection of underage magic,” Draco said, dismissively. “Usually I have help. But that’s not what I wanted to show you. The spell itself is easy. Look.”

He took Harry’s hand, murmuring a spell. A mop twisted and morphed into a huge black snake at their feet. Harry gasped. He could _feel_ the magic thrumming through him. He was half-hard, just from feeling Draco cast a _spell_.

“The Snake Shield,” Draco said. “It eats magic. Any magic, including the Unforgivables. It’s rumoured to be what Dumbledore used, in the final moments of his battle with Grindelwald. You can cast it beforehand, which makes it incredibly useful. Especially at night, or when it’s so chaotic your opponent doesn’t see it. Apparently Dumbledore cast it just before Grindelwald cast the Killing Curse at him. Instead of dodging the Killing Curse, which would have cost him precious time and allowed Grindelwald to regroup, he stood his ground and cast a Stunner. Grindelwald was knocked out, and the Snake ate the curse that would have otherwise killed our esteemed Headmaster.”

Harry was trying to listen. Honestly, he was. But Draco’s hand was creeping up the inside of his thigh, and all he could think about was Draco saying _sex magic_ earlier, like that was a thing. Was that a thing? He couldn’t help but hope so. It would explain why the Snake Shield had him desperate to rip off Draco’s clothes and take him against the wall in a broom cupboard, just a few feet away from a dozen reporters and the highest ranking members of their government and justice system. Because otherwise – well, that was a bit perverted, wasn’t it?

“Cast a curse at me,” Draco said. “Just not anything fatal. I’d rather not take the chance that my shield isn’t as powerful as Dumbledore’s.”

Harry reared back in alarm, the fog of lust clearing immediately. “ _What_?”

“A curse,” Draco repeated. “A mild one, if you want, but with the intent to harm.”

“I’m not going to –!”

“You won’t,” Draco assured him, nodding at the snake. It was arranging itself lazily into huge coils. “The spell will protect me.”

Harry looked from the snake to Draco. “Why wouldn’t wizards always use it, then?”

“It’s just like any shield,” Draco explained, patiently. “As soon as you know the counter-spell, it becomes useless. Every Dark wizard worth his wand knows how to counter the Snake Shield. It also behaves like a real snake, so it couldn’t follow you on a broom, or protect you if you were running. But with the advantage of darkness or surprise, it has no equal. Try it.”

Harry frowned and shuffled as far back as the cupboard would allow him. “I won’t hurt you? You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” Draco said.

Harry blew out a hard breath. “Okay. Okay.” He raised his wand, trying to think of a spell that wouldn’t hurt Draco if the snake wasn’t quite as good as he said it was. He remembered the Half-Blood Prince’s spells. _Levicorpus_ was fairly mild, all things considered. And there was one marked ‘for enemies’ he’d been dying to try. “ _Sectumsempra_!”

The spell flashed towards Draco. Quicker than the eye could see, the snake snapped up between them and swallowed the spell. It flopped back to the ground, hissing angrily in Harry’s direction.

Draco's mouth dropped open. “What the fuck, Potter! I said non-lethal!”

“It was!” Harry said. He hesitated. “I thought it was? Anyway, you said it wouldn’t hurt you!”

Draco banished the snake with a flick of his wand. “Are you telling me that you just used that curse with _no idea_ what it does? Salazar’s balls, Potter! Where did you even learn it? Only a few, select Death Eaters are taught Snape’s signature spells.”

“Snape?” Harry echoed. “ _Snape_ invented that spell?”

Draco nodded.

Harry stared at him. The Half-Blood Prince could have been a friend of Snape’s, right? Or seen the spell written down and left somewhere carelessly? But then, there was the extraordinary potions skill of the Prince, and it all seemed to add up to... “Fuck me. Snape is the Half-Blood Prince?”

Draco snorted. “You’d better not call him that to his face. He doesn’t take kindly to being taunted about his blood status. Or his mother.”

“Let me guess,” Harry said, with a sinking feeling. “His mother’s maiden name was Prince?” Draco nodded, and Harry groaned. “Bloody hell. That’s just typical. The best thing that ever happened to me in Potions, and it was Snape all along. Un-fucking-believable.”

“Potter,” Draco said, his voice a warning.

Harry sighed, and explained, “Ron and I came late to Potions first day this year, remember? We didn’t have textbooks, and I ended up with an old, ratty one with the name ‘Half-Blood Prince’ in the cover. I can’t believe I’ve been using Snape’s old Potions textbook all year!”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “So you _were_ cheating,” he said, in satisfaction. “I thought you had to be, when you were taking remedial Potions all last year just to keep up. Honestly, I thought you’d formed a mutually beneficial arrangement with Slughorn.”

Harry made a face at him. “I got an E for Potions last year, thanks very much. And not because I was taking extra classes, either. Snape was trying to teach me Occlumency.”

Draco looked surprised. “Really? Why?”

“Dumbledore thought it would be useful,” Harry said, vaguely. “That curse – it really would have killed you?”

“Let’s just say that what Finch-Fletchley did to me would have looked like a paper-cut in comparison. I would have been sliced to ribbons, especially with your power. You shouldn’t cast spells you don’t know. Someone could get hurt.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, shaken. “Sorry.”

Draco waved it off. “We should probably get back.” He cracked the door open to peer out into the hallway, and then looked back at Harry with a small smirk. “I’d love to see that book sometime, by the way. I can just picture Snape’s face when he finds out you’ve been using it.”

“He’s not going to find out. And you can _have_ it,” Harry said, with suppressed violence. “I never want to see it again.”

“How very melodramatic of you,” Draco said, mildly. “Perhaps you would also like an escort up to the Astronomy tower when we get back, so you can jump off in a terrible fit of the dumps over your misplaced guilt for just about everything, from the war to Finch-Fletchley using you and breaking your heart?”

Harry smiled reluctantly. “I don’t feel guilty about Justin. He made his own choices.”

Draco stared at him, and then whirled, shoving Harry back against the wall. Several cleaning products crashed to the ground.

“Oi!” Harry protested.

“Shh,” Draco murmured. “A breakthrough like that needs positive reinforcement.” He dropped to his knees. “I think my tongue on your cock is just the thing.”

“Draco,” Harry gasped.

Draco pushed his robes up, out of the way, and wrestled with Harry’s trousers for a moment. “Are these ridiculous Muggle things _absolutely_ necessary?” he said at last, frustrated.

Harry laughed and tore his robes off, dropping them on the floor. He pulled his zipper down with a sigh of relief, widening his stance so Draco could shuffle in between them. He absolutely _loved_ Draco’s blowjobs, and he was already tensing in anticipation, cock straining unabashedly towards Draco’s perfect mouth. “I love you on your knees,” he blurted.

Draco just smiled up at him, teeth gleaming in the dark. And then he opened his mouth and waited, inviting and passive. Harry almost lost it right there, legs buckling under him.

“D-Draco –”

Draco rolled his eyes impatiently, reaching up to grasp Harry’s hips. “Come _on_ , Potter. You’ve done it before.”

Harry slipped his hand into Draco’s hair and pulled him forward, easing his cock into that welcoming mouth, silencing the sharp tongue. He closed his eyes and drew back a little, hating the cool air that caressed his saliva-slick cock, and rocked back in immediately, feeling Draco open his mouth wider, encouraging him to go deeper.

Harry’s hands clenched convulsively in Draco’s soft hair, and he started to thrust, moaning as Draco swallowed him down each time. Draco always took him with ease; every thrust, shallow or deep, gentle or hard, sucking and tonguing him in ways that made Harry curl his toes, swallowing around him like he’d been born without a gag reflex.

Heat pooled at the base of Harry’s spine, building until he couldn’t take it anymore. He thrust once more, and felt Draco swallow around him, three times in rapid succession, and he wailed around the fist stuffed in his mouth and came.

Sometime later, he opened his eyes to find himself being held in Draco’s arms, warmth surrounding and filling him. He smiled. “You’re not a bad person, Draco,” he murmured.

Draco pressed his lips against Harry’s hair tenderly. “No,” he said. “Not when I’m with you.”

~*~

Harry spent dinner that night holed up in his bed, a Repellant Charm on his curtains. Apparently the Daily Prophet had rushed off another special edition of the paper covering the trial, and Harry’s confession was front page news. He’d done an immediate about-turn in the Great Hall as soon as he saw the paper, grabbing a couple of bread rolls on his way out.

He spent the time putting a dent in his homework, and ignoring Ron, who tried yelling through the curtains a few times that they needed to talk. He waited until Ron stomped off to the bathroom, and then quickly left for his detention.

He was making his way down to Professor McGonagall’s office when a low _psst_ caught his attention.

He looked around, spotting Draco standing in the shadow of a knight in armour. “Hey!” he said, surprised. “What are you doing here?”

“I need you,” Draco said, and Harry started forward instinctively. Draco shook his head, holding up the Time-Turner. “No, not me. I’ve come back. My past self is upstairs at the moment, and I’m about to kill another bird. I need you.”

Harry stared at him in dismay. “Draco, I can’t. I’m sorry. I have detention. I’m already running late.”

“I know. You’re in with Professor McGonagall already,” Draco explained. “Your future self. I took you back with me.”

Relieved and a little confused, Harry reached out for him again. This time, Draco allowed the embrace. “But you’re all right now?” he asked.

“Better,” Draco said, somewhat evasively.

Harry frowned, searching his eyes. “That’s not an answer.” Draco sighed, looking away. “I’m not leaving you like this,” Harry decided.

“You have no choice,” Draco said, flatly. “From my perspective, you already have. Which means that you will, whether you want to or not. Anyway, you’ll be out of detention in a couple of hours. You can’t stay with me now. I – my past self – needs you, upstairs.”

“ _You_ need me,” Harry argued, feeling a little panicky. There was something really wrong here, and he didn’t like the feeling of being forced into not helping.

“You told me – you tell me,” Draco corrected himself, “to find Pansy. I promised I would.”

Harry’s eyes narrowed. It wasn’t ideal, but it was better than nothing. “And you’ll stay with her? Until I come for you?”

“Until you _come_ for me, Potter?” Draco mocked, gently. “Because your presence will make everything _oh-_ so-much better?”

Harry scowled. “Don’t argue with me,” he said. “I’m not leaving until you promise me.”

Draco sighed. “Very well. I promise to stay with Pansy until you return from your detention.”

“Okay,” Harry said, taking a deep breath. It was almost a physical wrench to step back, and he lifted his fingers to touch Draco’s cheek, keeping some contact between them. “Okay. I love you, sweetheart.”

One side of Draco’s mouth curled up into a smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. “I know,” he said. “But you’ve wasted enough time, making sure I’m all right. I’m very much _not_ all right, upstairs, and my magic is about to level the castle – or turn me into a vegetable. You need to run, Harry. _Now_.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for your kudos and comments! xx

**CHAPTER ELEVEN**

**SMOKE AND MIRRORS**

_Oh, what delight when the youthful and gay_  
 _Each with eye like a sunbeam and foot like a feather,_  
 _Thus dance, like the Hours to the music of May,_  
 _And mingle sweet song and sunshine together_  
~ Thomas Moore

Part One

The Room of Requirement was deathly silent, as if Magic itself was holding its breath in anticipation. Draco touched his wand to the smooth wood of the Vanishing Cabinet, closing his eyes. “ _Transeat sine iniuria_ ,” he chanted. “ _Transeat sine iniuria_. _Transeat sine iniuria_. _Transeat sine iniuria_.” 

Four repetitions. Four dimensions – length, width, height, and magic. According to all the laws of Arithmancy, it _should_ work this time. He knew the bird was making it to the other Vanishing Cabinet alive; the proprietor of Borgin & Burkes had written to tell him so. Now, if only it would work the other way…

He waited a moment, just to make sure, and then slowly opened the door.

The bird was silent and still; just a little pile of feathers and claws.

Draco stared at it, feeling something rip and tear inside him _. It shouldn’t hurt like this_ , he thought. _It’s just a bird_. But there was nothing left in him to fight the pain; just a vast, empty nothingness, filled with nothing but a terrible, tearing _grief_ like he’d never known before.

He sank to his knees and bowed his head against the wood. He couldn’t even cry. There were no tears left. He’d failed. Another bird had died, because he’d failed. His father would die, alone and defenceless in Azkaban, because he’d failed. His mother – his mother was already alone, and being tortured, or worse, because he’d failed. And Draco would be stripped of his magic, and then given to Greyback at the next full moon.

Hogwarts would fall, because of him. Harry – Harry would die, because of him.

His magic swelled, pressing outwards. It felt like it had before, when he’d lost control in the courtroom. But this time, it wouldn’t stop, like it was pouring into him, more and more and more, and it was too much, like his body couldn’t possibly contain it all. It was terrifying. There was nowhere to go but _out_.

He panicked immediately.

It didn’t make sense. He wasn’t anywhere near that powerful, but it kept building, and building, until he was shaking and sick with it, his fingers trembling as they pressed against the ground, and he thought, with sudden, dreadful clarity, that this much magic would _obliterate_ Hogwarts, and the Dark Lord would have what he wanted, after all.

Or, worse, if he destroyed the Vanishing Cabinet…

Frantic now, he struggled to rein it back in. He could feel the strain on his body. The magic _wanted_ to explode, and if he didn’t let it out, it was going to turn inwards on him. That much magic, imploding inside him… it would destroy him, leave him a mindless, gibbering fool, if it didn’t kill him first.

“Harry!” he cried. “ _Harry_ –!”

And then, as if Merlin himself had answered his prayer, the door burst open.

Harry skidded in beside him. “Draco!” He grabbed Draco’s shoulders, and Draco felt the brush of that cool, winter breeze that was his lover’s soul.

“Help me,” he choked out, and suddenly it was like Harry was _drawing_ the magic from him, channelling it away. He closed his eyes, shuddering and crying with relief as more and more was drawn from him. “Harry,” he whispered, and felt arms pull him into an embrace. He tucked his head under Harry’s chin, and let himself relax.

It seemed like a long while later that all the magic was gone.

“Look,” Harry said, quietly.

Draco scrubbed his hands over his face. He glanced around disinterestedly, and then felt his mouth drop open. “You – you are _ridiculous_ , Potter.”

The Room of Hidden Things had been transformed, rose bushes sprouting up from every square inch available; in rows down the alleyways, growing out of the mountains of books and broken furniture and toys – pinks and reds and blues and whites and yellows and dark purples, as far as the eye could see. One was even sprouting from the top of the stuffed troll’s head, and the bed Harry had transfigured for their night of romance was tilting precariously on top of at least twelve bushes.

Harry smiled slightly, but his eyes were worried. “The magic had to go somewhere. That’s what it wanted to do. What happened?”

Draco flinched. “I killed another bird.”

Harry sighed. “I know.”

“I’m going to fail. I’m going to die.”

Harry made a small, distressed noise. “No, you’re not. You promised, remember? You promised that if I did my best to survive this, so would you. I’m begging you, Draco. Let me protect you. Dumbledore needs me; he won’t say no, and you know he has the power and the resources to rescue your mother and protect you both. It’s time. Please say yes, sweetheart. _Please_.”

Draco shook his head. He couldn’t see a way out, that was true. But he refused to give up, not when there was a chance his mother was still alive. Not when someone loved him like this; enough to demand a mutual promise not to die in this futile war.

“I’ll think about it,” he conceded.

Harry looked disappointed, but he drew him down to lie on a thick bed of rose petals, murmuring, “Thank you.”

~*~

They didn’t have sex, though Harry was sorely tempted. But it seemed reckless in the extreme, and Draco agreed, reluctantly. While they might not be able to control strong emotions like grief, or terror, it made sense to at least limit the ‘intimacy’ that seemed to trigger Harry’s magic.

Only Draco’s magic, so far, had been destructive, but it was frighteningly powerful. That kind of build-up of raw, wild power… Harry thought future-Draco had been underestimating the destruction it could have caused. On the other hand, Harry’s magic was very obviously focused on Draco. Which meant, if their power was the same, then the potential for that destruction being turned on his lover was far too great. It made him dangerous to _Draco_ , and that was unacceptable.

He woke an hour later, half on top of Draco. As if, even in sleep, his body had been trying to maintain that forbidden contact. He rolled off. “Damn it. Sorry.”

Draco stretched, yawning. “Stop apologising, Potter. It’s annoying, and I refuse to give you any more blow-jobs until you stop.”

Harry sighed. “No sex at all, remember, sweetheart? We’re sticking to it this time.”

“Are we?” Draco murmured. He looked so soft and drowsy that Harry’s mouth went dry. He wanted, desperately, to touch Draco’s belly, to slide his fingers down a little further, past Draco’s hips, slip them in through the concealing robes…

“Bloody hell,” he swore, and cast the spell every teenage boy at Hogwarts knew, for those erections that presented themselves at inconvenient times.

Draco just chuckled at him, voice low and rough with sleep.

Harry groaned. “Don’t _do_ that.” He _wanted_ him, so badly it hurt. No erection-dampening spell could erase that. He couldn’t help himself, lunging forward to catch Draco up in a kiss. He’d never kissed Draco when he was like this, warm and sleepy and delicious, and Draco just _melted_ into him. Harry had to force himself to go slow, to be gentle, but he was _so hungry_ , and Draco was _breathtaking_ in his submission.

Heat skidded down his spine as he curled his tongue around Draco’s. Draco moaned in response, threading his fingers into Harry’s hair, and Harry pressed him down, tilting his head to get a better angle to devour him. He coaxed Draco’s tongue into his own mouth and sucked greedily, swallowing every little moan and whimper. Every touch, every raw, erotic sound – teeth clacking, lips sliding together and slurping apart, hands grabbing and pressing into tender, vulnerable flesh – was like sparks of magic, igniting their desire, fanning it into an inferno.

He broke away, panting. “ _Merlin_ ,” he said, desperate and bewildered. “What’s happening?”

Draco opened his eyes again, and Harry shuddered with the _need_ he could see there; a need which mirrored his own exactly.

“I need you,” he said, urgently. “Oh Merlin, why do I need you so much?”

“Because you’re an insatiable adolescent boy?” Draco suggested. His pupils were drowning out the soft grey of his eyes, and he stretched up and nipped at Harry’s jaw. Harry sucked in a breath. The spell had worn off while they were kissing, and he was very, very hard. One more kiss – just _one_ –

He wrenched himself backwards. Draco’s hands rose to stop him, and it took everything Harry had in him to push himself back, out of reach. “Insatiable is right,” he said, shakily. “Draco...”

Draco sighed. He looked very tired, despite the hour’s rest. “I thought the days of you being a cock-tease were behind us.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said. He hugged his knees to his chest tightly, to stop himself from reaching out. “Do you think Madam Pomfrey’s right? That our need to touch is something to do with our magic being linked?”

Draco frowned at him. “You really don’t know what the pathways are?”

“I really don’t,” Harry told him.

Draco nodded slowly. “I believe you. Which means someone else cast it on us. A curse of some kind.”

Harry considered that. “Why couldn’t it be a – a bond, or whatever Hermione was talking about?”

Draco’s lips curled up in a small smirk. “That’s very romantic, Potter. Unfortunately, we’re not living in a Harlequin novel.”

Harry blinked. “A what?”

Draco coloured inexplicably. “Pansy reads them. Not me. The _point_ is, bonds don’t just happen. By accident, or even malicious design. As Granger said, they require the full cooperation and knowledge of the two parties involved. Someone can’t just come along and bind two people together. The very idea is ludicrous.”

“Like the Unbreakable Vow,” Harry remembered. “There has to be mutual agreement.”

“Exactly.”

“But what kind of curse would do this? I mean, it’s out of control, but it’s still making us stupidly powerful. Who’d want that? Maybe there could be a curse that – I don’t know, draws people together, makes them focused, obsessed, but –”

“We’re not obsessed,” Draco said, and then appeared to reconsider. “Well, I’m not.”

Harry frowned. “I meant with sex, Draco. My feelings for you aren’t obsession. I know obsession. I was obsessed with you for _months_ , trying to prove you were a Death Eater, to catch you in the act. My feelings for you, now… everything about it is different. You have to know that.”

Draco smiled. “Only months, Potter?”

“Yes –” Harry stopped. _Oh_ _._ “You?”

“Oh, years. I’ve been obsessed with _beating_ you ever since I met you. Or beating you to a pulp. Either would have been fine.”

Harry laughed. “Likewise,” he said, and then had to catch himself as he leaned in for a kiss. “Fuck,” he said, raking his hands through his hair in frustration. “I don’t think I can do this.”

“What, keep your hands off me?” Draco drawled. “I should think not, Potter.”

Harry set his jaw obstinately. “I promised to keep you safe, and that means no sex. It’s just,” he sighed, “when I touch you, and kiss you, and make you come, you get all soft and – and _happy_ , and some of the fear in your eyes goes away, for a little while. I can’t help wanting that. I don’t think that can be the curse.”

Draco’s gaze softened. “No. There is no curse in the world capable of invoking love in its victim. But I wish you wouldn’t say things like that. As if we were – as if I could just run away with you, forget the war, forget my family, my duty to marry and produce an heir –”

Harry blinked. “You’re really going to get married? To a _girl_?”

“Of course to a girl,” Draco scoffed. “Apart from anything else, homosexual marriage is against the law. Not to mention, as a pureblood, I have obligations, and not just to my family line. I don’t expect you to understand, but there are few enough of us already. Why do you think the Weasleys have such a large brood? I would be ostracised, shamed by the entire wizarding world, even blood traitors like them, if I failed to produce at least _one_ brat for the next generation. Ask Weasley, if you don’t believe me. I don’t have a choice.”

Harry frowned. “I think you have more choices than you think you do.”

“Do you?” Draco said. He changed the subject. “ _I_ think I’d like to know how you knew to come in here when you did.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “It’s not what you think. I mean, it wasn’t our magic.” He tapped Draco’s chest, where the Time-Turner lay hidden under his robes. “It was you. You said you took me back with you, so I could do my detention, and you could warn me – me two hours ago – that you needed me.”

“I said – I say that?”

“You told me to run. Good thing, too. I only just made it in time.”

“Saving the day, once again,” Draco said. “Don’t you ever get tired of it, Potter?”

“Not when it’s you,” Harry said, truthfully. He sighed. “The rest… you know it’s what I have to do.”

Draco arched an eyebrow. “What was it you said? I think you have more choices than you think you do?”

Harry smiled, shaking his head. That ability of Draco’s to take his words and throw them back in his face was one of the many reasons he –

He stopped _that_ thought dead in its tracks.

“Let me know if you think of any, yeah?” he said, dryly. “We should probably go. I’ve got detention with McGonagall, two hours ago, and I don’t want to be late.”

~*~

Those two hours in detention seemed to last an eternity.

Draco was the master of the Slytherin mask, always hiding his true emotions behind cool grey eyes. But he was dangerously close to shattering under the pressure, and Harry knew it.

He had hoped that the second bird’s death would be the tipping point. It was obviously closely connected to Draco’s task. But Draco hadn’t spoken another word about Harry’s offer, and he was beginning to fear that nothing he could do or say would sway the other boy. That Draco was going to do something terrible, or die trying.

He could see it in Pansy’s eyes, when he joined them later that evening. She was almost beside herself with worry, and it made a nameless dread rise up in his throat, tightening his chest until he could barely breathe.

He held Draco close, all through the night, and wasn’t tempted to kiss him once.

At breakfast, Ron and Hermione cornered him, Hermione waving around a copy of the Daily Prophet from the night before. “Have you read this?” she demanded. “That _horrible_ woman –”

Harry sighed. “Maybe she’s right. I used an Unforgivable. I chose that spell. Maybe I should be punished.”

“But that’s not where this is going, mate,” Ron said, sympathetically. He was, for once, completely ignoring his breakfast in favour of returning the glares being sent in Harry’s direction. There was even a copy of the paper open in front of him, instead of a filled plate. Harry was half-inclined to borrow Colin’s camera and take a photo for posterity. “Primrose is already jumping on your testimony as evidence for her case. She’s going to argue that Justin’s attack on Malfoy was the opening salvo of the war, and it should be allowed, just like the Aurors were officially sanctioned to use Unforgivables during the first war. She’s going to convince everyone that there’s not enough evidence to show that Malfoy _didn’t_ provoke the attack outside The Three Broomsticks –”

“Which is ridiculous,” Harry interrupted, scowling, “since the only two people actually involved aren’t testifying. Robards won’t let Draco take the stand, and Madam Primrose probably knows Justin couldn’t make the lie sound plausible.”

Ron nodded. “So she’s planting doubt in the Wizengamot’s minds. She’ll argue that if he did provoke Malfoy, then he was justified in his use of the Unforgivable. He was under ‘emotional duress’, just like you. I wouldn’t be surprised if they brought in Mind Healers to corroborate it. No one will dare suggest the Chosen One be put on trial, and they’ll try to get Justin off scot-free because you’re not being punished.”

“How do you –?”

Ron looked apologetic. “It’s obvious. We already knew this trial wasn’t going to end in a fair judgment. Now we know how they’re going to do it. Meanwhile, Umbridge is using her platform to show the public that you are not the perfect hero everyone thought you were.”

“No one thinks I’m perfect,” Harry objected. “They’re always printing lies about me. At least this time it’s the truth.”

“Except that what the wizarding world really needs right now is hope, Harry,” Hermione said. “And you give them hope. I know that’s terribly unfair, and it’s an awful burden to bear, but it’s true. No matter what the papers have said about you over the years, the public has never seemed to lose hope in you. But if they do, then Voldemort will take over without ever lifting a finger.”

“We won’t let that happen,” Ron said, firmly.

“Maybe what we need is another interview, telling your side of the story,” Hermione suggested. “We could ask Luna if her dad would write it up, this time.”

“What? No,” Harry protested. “My ‘side’ of the story is that I used an Unforgivable, just like Justin. The same one, even! If I want justice for Draco, I’ll have to say I should be put on trial, too.”

“But it’s not the same at all,” Hermione said, gently. “Sirius had just been murdered, right in front you. You weren’t thinking straight, and his killer was taunting you. And even then, there just wasn’t enough hatred inside you to hold it.”

Or, perhaps, Harry thought grimly, remembering Draco’s explanation of Dark and Light, simply the aptitude. He wondered what would have happened if he’d been born Dark, and that kind of magic came to him easily. Would he have tortured Bellatrix until she lost her mind, or even died? Not because he was Dark, but because he’d _wanted_ it; wanted it so badly he’d _burned_ with it.

“And you did it to her face, and you didn’t kick her while she was down,” Hermione continued, oblivious to his thoughts. “Even though, had the situation been reversed, she wouldn’t have hesitated. You were in the middle of a battle, and you were the one at a disadvantage. Justin, on the other hand, cast the Cruciatus Curse at Malfoy’s _back_ , held him under it until he lost consciousness _,_ and then tried to kill him. A boy who had done nothing to him but be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Those are two very different situations, Harry. I think you underestimate just how much telling people what you did will help to restore your reputation.”

Harry grimaced, but said, “Fine. I’ll have a word to Luna tomorrow.”

“This morning,” Hermione said, firmly. “Before the trial.”

Harry glanced at Ron, who gave him a look of mingled encouragement and commiseration. He sighed. “This morning,” he agreed.

Hermione smiled at him brightly. “Good. Now, how is your exam preparation going? Are you keeping up with your new study plan? I tried to factor in the time you’re losing at the trial, and I think it _is_ possible to stay on top of it all _and_ get in a reasonable amount of study, if you work hard. You know we only have just over a week until exams, right?”

Ron coughed, burying himself in the newspaper again. Harry glowered at him. _Traitor_.

~*~

“Hullo, Harry!” Luna blinked at him through a pair of outrageously pink glasses. She was wearing her radish earrings today, and her hair was done up in pigtails with fluffy green bobbles. “You’re looking lovely today!”

Harry glanced down at himself. He was wearing one of the new robes Pansy had ordered for him, although it was beginning to show signs of wear despite his best efforts. “Er,” he said. “Thanks. You’re looking lovely too?”

She laughed; a happy, tinkling laugh that had Harry smiling back at her instantly. Luna was just like that. “Oh, it’s not the _outside_ that’s important, Harry. It’s the inside. And your insides are lovely and sparkling.”

Harry blinked. He couldn’t begin to imagine how his internal organs could be interpreted as sparkling, nor why Luna would be interested. He probably didn’t want to know, come to think of it. “Okay,” he said. “Luna, I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind interviewing me for the Quibbler.”

“Oh, really?” she said, brightening. “Oh, Harry, that’s a wonderful idea. I’m afraid people are rather losing interest in common household pests like gerblins when they’re so frightened of Voldemort. It would be good to give them some hope.”

Harry stared at her. “You think an interview with me will give people hope?”

“Of course,” she said. “You’re kind of like the mother gerblin of us all, if you think about it. Did you know that, soon after birth, the nest of gerblins split into groups and begin attacking each other? They’re vicious as rats, and _much_ deadlier, because their saliva is poison to each other. There’s nothing the mother can do – she just has to watch her children dying at their own hands. So to speak, of course. Everyone knows gerblins don’t have hands.”

“Okay,” Harry said slowly, wondering where this was going.

Luna smiled. “You see, the mother gerblin knows that if she was to interfere, she would quite possibly be killed. And then her babies would starve to death, or be eaten by predators. But there comes a point when the children are almost old enough to survive on their own, and the mother thinks: _enough_. And she sacrifices herself to stop her children fighting. The babies are so shocked by this that they do stop fighting, and grieve together instead. And then they go their separate ways, and find mates of their own. And if they ever come across their brothers or sisters again, they’re the most affectionate creatures you’ve ever seen.”

There was a hard lump in Harry’s throat. He couldn’t speak for a moment. “Are you – are you saying you think I’m going to die?”

She shook her head earnestly. “Oh, no, Harry! The mother doesn’t _always_ die. Sometimes her mate nurses her back to health, and they go on to have more broods.”

Harry frowned. “I’ve never heard of gerblins, Luna.”

She looked so surprised at this that she almost toppled backwards. “But Harry, every wizarding household has at least one nest of gerblins! They can be a little annoying when they’re fighting in your attic space, but no one really _minds_ them. They’re totally harmless to wizards, you see.”

“Oh.” So it was one of those things he didn’t know because he hadn’t grown up in the wizarding world. Then again, with Luna, one never really knew. “So, uh, tomorrow evening?”

“Lovely!” she declared. “I’ll owl Dad tonight and see if there’s anything in particular he’d like to ask you.” She skipped away, calling over her shoulder, “An exclusive with Harry Potter! It’ll make his week, thank you!”

Harry sighed and turned to head out to the Entrance Hall.

~*~

Pansy sat next to the window in the Divination classroom, examining her hand-mirror in the sunshine. Draco had seen no need for her to go with him to the trial that morning, even despite the dreadful events of the past few days, and she hadn’t argued with him, too relieved not be missing another Divination lesson.

It should have been the perfect conditions for scrying, but her every attempt had been met with failure, and she was growing increasingly frustrated.

“What am I doing _wrong_ , Daph?”

Daphne raised an elegant eyebrow at her. “Why are you asking me?”

Pansy sighed. “Good question.” Daphne didn’t even have to try with this medium; at least for scrying the present. Asking her advice for future readings was futile, at best. “It’s hardly fair, though. Mirrors are made for showing the present.”

“Don’t be sore, dearest,” Daphne said. “It’s not always as useful as you might think.”

“It’s a damn sight more useful than nothing at all!”

Daphne tutted. “Language, darling.”

Pansy deflated. “Sorry, Daph.” She was just so _frustrated_. She wanted to See something, _anything_ , that would reassure her that they would be all right. But the mirror remained blank, and Draco was definitely not all right. She’d been covering for him all year, but if he hadn’t been spending every day of this week in London, she thought she might not have been able to hide how badly he was losing it now.

She had never wanted Draco’s heart broken, but she would have taken it if only he was safe. Except now it looked as if he intended to fall head-first into a one-sided love affair with Potter, _and_ stubbornly continue with a task that would, depending on his success or failure, either see him a criminal or dead.

She had to find a way to reach him. Fast.

Raising her mirror again, she concentrated on a small imperfection in the mirror’s surface, allowing it to draw her into the trance required for a reading. For a moment, she drifted for a moment, letting unwanted, unproductive thoughts fall away. And then she brought her thoughts deliberately back to Draco.

She caught a glimpse of grey eyes filled with tears, and then they vanished.

“Why am I not _seeing_ anything?” she cried, slamming her mirror down on the table.

Two rows over, Professor Trelawney jumped, yelping. “Now, now, my child!” she cried, hurrying over. “Whatever’s the matter?”

Pansy breathed in slowly, deliberately, reining in her emotions. “I’m sorry, professor,” she said, turning with an apologetic smile. “I didn’t mean to lose my temper.”

“Of course you didn’t, my dear,” Trelawney said, smiling at her fondly. “You have a Natural Aptitude for Divination; I’ve always Seen that. But you mustn’t try to force the visions to come, you know. They will come as they will, to those mere mortals who are Open and Ready to receive them. It is a truly Sacred experience, and not one that can be compelled.” She paused dramatically. “Of course, it _is_ possible for True Seers to compel visions, but we are a rare breed, indeed.”

Daphne coughed delicately and brought her mirror up to cover her face. Pansy very deliberately pressed the heel of her shoe into Daphne’s toes until she yelped, and Professor Trelawney blinked at her in surprise.

“Miss Greengrass?”

“Professor,” Pansy said, “is there any way you could possibly help me to improve my technique? I know I’m unlikely to ever See the complex, _rich_ minutiae of the future like you can, but I would like to master even a tenth of your skill with scrying.”

Trelawney looked flattered. She took Pansy’s hands, drawing her to her feet. “Come, child,” she said. “The tutelage you are requesting requires a more Peaceful Atmosphere than this.”

Professor Trelawney led her to the middle of the room, where she twirled her wand in a flashy infinity symbol. Pansy stared as dozens of sheer, coloured scarves spun into being around them, twirling and twining into a pretty, if not particularly powerful, ward. It incorporated both a privacy charm and an Imperturbable, though, which made it a surprisingly safe place to speak honestly.

Trelawney conjured two small, bright purple poufs, and settled on the nearest one.

“This is a beautiful piece of charm work, professor,” Pansy said honestly, taking a seat opposite her.

Trelawney’s smile widened. “I always did have a fondness for charms, but in the end, I could not deny my True Gift. When dear Albus _begged_ me to take the position of Divination professor, how could I deny him? Indeed, why would I want to? I consider it my Sacred Duty to pass on my years of knowledge and experience to the next generation of Young People.”

Pansy nodded. “And we appreciate it, professor,” she said, mostly sincere.

“Oh, Miss Parkinson, I know _you_ do, at least!” Trelawney said, looking moved. “Now, my Dearest One, take my hands, and tell me what you need.”

Pansy took the outstretched hands. “I don’t have any trouble falling into the trance,” she explained. “I’m just not Seeing anything. It’s like –”

“You’re blocked.” Professor Trelawney nodded wisely. “Your Inner Eye is clouded, my dear. I knew it as _soon_ as you walked in my door this afternoon. “

Pansy bit her lip. “I’m afraid for my friend, professor. He’s trapped in a bad situation, and I want so badly to See a way out for him. Or even just... See how it turns out.”

Trelawney’s face fell. “Oh, my poor child.” She paused, obviously thinking seriously. It was an unusual enough occurrence that Pansy held her tongue and waited. Finally, Trelawney said, “A medium this small will only show you images. Flashes of the future.”

Pansy sat up straighter. “That’s all I saw in the other mediums, as well. You’re saying I need a larger medium? A larger mirror?”

Professor Trelawney tutted. “You know better than that, Miss Parkinson. It’s not about size, it’s about the _power_ of the medium.” She leaned in very close, and Pansy had to control the urge to flinch away from the distinctive smell of sherry. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but there is an _extremely_ powerful mirror –”

“On the fourth floor,” Pansy breathed.

Professor Trelawney looked put out. “Of course,” she said, rallying, “I knew that you knew of it. That is why I can risk imparting this knowledge to you. The Infinity Mirror does not show the future, but rather the many, many paths the future might take, branching off from an individual’s decisions and stretching into eternity. It is a truly unique and powerful Artifact.”

Pansy stared at her. “So I just look into this Infinity Mirror and I’ll be able to see the outcome of any choice that must be made? It’s that simple?”

Trelawney looked affronted. “Of course not! It is not _simple_ , young lady, or just anyone would be able to see _anyone’s_ future. No, there is an Art to it, which I will teach you, but,” she lowered her voice still further, looking around furtively, “ _Not Here_.”

She waved her wand, and the scarves fell, vanishing before they hit the floor. The other students startled, looking at them in surprise, and Pansy realised there had been a subtle Notice-Me-Not Charm woven through Trelawney’s ward. Clever.

Impressed, and feeling more hopeful than she had all year, Pansy hurried back to her seat.

“So,” Daphne said, delicately, “was your discussion fruitful?”

“More prattle than actual help, honestly,” Pansy said, injecting a little irritation into her tone. “I don’t know why I bother.”

Daphne raised her eyebrows. “Because you are determined to do whatever it takes to ensure you and Draco survive the war?”

“Not just Draco and I,” Pansy corrected her.

“But Draco most of all,” Daphne said, matter-of-factly. “When did you start placing his survival above your own, darling?”

Pansy glared at her coldly. Being accused of being less than Slytherin was a deliberate insult; one designed to provoke her into revealing more than she intended to. “Perhaps I can simply see beyond what might happen tomorrow, or the day after that,” she said. “Perhaps I’m planning long-term, not just for our immediate survival.”

Daphne considered her. “Do you really still think Draco will marry you? Do you even want it? He’s made his preferences clear. You will never mean more to him than the mother of his child.”

“Draco has no intention of marrying me, nor I him,” Pansy said. “Do you think I would have permitted him to bed Blaise otherwise? Boys from other houses, perhaps; they’re all so insipid none of them could have held his attention for long. Nor hold a candle to _me_ in his eyes.”

“Except Potter,” Daphne observed, without malice, and Pansy acknowledged it with a nod. “But then, Draco has always held a strange fascination for Harry Potter, hasn’t he?”

“And I don’t play second fiddle to anyone,” Pansy agreed. “Least of all Gryffindors with hero complexes.”

“Does he intend to ‘save’ Draco, then?”

“Whatever he intends, Draco is more than a match for him,” Pansy assured her. But her voice faltered despite herself, and she cursed herself inwardly. There was no way Daphne hadn’t caught it.

“You don’t believe that,” Daphne said, staring at her in surprise. “You really believe Potter can outsmart Draco. Are you mad?”

“Not mad.” Pansy shrugged self-deprecatingly. “Foolish, perhaps. A foolish girl with foolish ideas.”

Daphne’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t think I don’t know you have an ace up your sleeve, Pansy. You always have an ace.”

Pansy stared at her mirror, abandoned on the table. “I hope so, Daph,” she said. “I really hope so.”

~*~

The trial that day went much like Ron had predicted.

It was Friday, and apparently the Wizengamot did not sit in judgement over the weekend. Naturally, Madam Primrose called on a highly respected Mind Healer from St Mungo’s to end the week with the confident tones of experts ringing in the ears of the court. The Mind Healer told the Wizengamot that such terrible news as the death of one’s mother and sister, followed so quickly by the possible provocation of a known Death Eater’s son, certainly qualified as emotional duress. Justin could not be held truly accountable for his actions.

It didn’t seem to matter to anyone that there wasn’t any proof Draco had provoked him.

Madam Primrose made sure to ask the Mind Healer if Justin’s ‘alleged’ crime paralleled the Chosen One’s use of an Unforgivable on the killer of a loved one, and the Mind Healer corroborated this.

Only Draco’s hand on his thigh kept Harry from jumping up and interrupting again.

During a brief recess, an Auror approached them and spoke quietly with Professor Flitwick for a moment. Harry watched him disinterestedly, still fuming over the Mind Healer’s testimony.

Then the Auror gestured at him, and said, “If you would follow me, Mr Potter...?”

Harry looked at Flitwick, who nodded. Frowning, Harry grabbed Draco’s hand, pulling him up, too. He glared stubbornly at the Auror’s shake of the head. “I’m not going anywhere without him.”

“What are you doing?” Draco hissed.

“Mr Potter –”

Harry just gave the Auror a hard stare. He thought he recognised him from that day in Dumbledore’s office last year, when Umbridge had discovered Dumbledore’s Army. Dawlish or something? “I mean it. I’m not leaving him alone.”

“You’re being ridiculous, Harry –”

“Fine,” the Auror snapped impatiently. “Follow me.”

“What’s going on?” Draco said, in an undertone.

“I don’t know,” Harry said, squeezing his hand apologetically. He kept his voice low and his head down as they followed the Auror, but the cameras flashed anyway as they passed by, and people pointed and whispered.

Draco sighed. “We’re going to be on the front page again, you realise.”

“Yeah, sorry,” Harry said. “Just, everyone’s so hostile, and Pansy’s not here.”

“She could only take so many days off school,” Draco said, dismissively. “I would have been fine.”

Harry stopped just outside a door the Auror had passed through. He couldn’t help remembering Hermione’s words. _He needs to be loved, to be needed. To protect, to belong, to own_. “I know,” he said. “Does it bother you?”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Your inexplicable need to be overprotective and overbearing, you mean?” Harry felt his face fall, and Draco shrugged. “Not in the slightest.”

The Auror peered back around the door. “Are you coming?”

“Maybe later,” Draco murmured, just loud enough for Harry to hear.

Harry couldn’t help but grin, following him through the door.

“What’s this, Dawlish?” a voice said, disapprovingly. “I asked for –”

Harry’s stomach dropped. He knew that voice. He’d had a private conversation with the man at Christmas, and would have been quite happy to never repeat the performance.

“Ah,” the Minister said. “Harry.”

Dawlish bowed himself out, and Harry stepped up beside Draco. It was an opulent room; about the size of the Gryffindor common room, with low sofas, velvet cushions, thick rugs and a roaring fire, and what looked like a very well-stocked bar. Scrimgeour was seated on one of the sofas, his arm slung across the back, a glass of wine in his hand.

“Minister,” Harry acknowledged, after a suitable pause, just on the edge of being rude.

Scrimgeour maintained his smile. “You’ve brought your friend, I see.”

“Boyfriend,” Harry corrected him pleasantly. “Or lover, if you prefer. I know I do.”

Scringeour choked on his wine. “Indeed,” he said, coughing. “Well, I suppose they do say war makes for strange bedfellows. Literally, it seems.” He waved a hand at the sofa opposite him. “Take a seat.”

“Thanks, but we’ll stand,” Harry said.

Draco didn’t move, but Harry felt the reassuring press of his shoulder against his own.

“Very well,” Scrimgeour said. “I’m sure you’re wondering why I’ve asked to talk to you.” He put deliberate emphasis on ‘you’, and his eyes passed over Draco and then away, clearly dismissing him. Harry bristled. “There has been a serious accusation levelled against you, and you have confessed to a crime which would have normally had you slapped in Azkaban with the merest trappings of a trial.”

“Like Stan Shunpike, you mean?” Harry said. “Or did he not even get the trappings?”

Scrimgeour scowled. “We are not here to talk about suspected Death Eaters,” he said, and this time his eyes turned to Draco pointedly.

Harry scowled. “Then what _are_ we here to talk about, Minister?”

“I believe I mentioned, the last time we spoke, the importance of people’s perceptions,” Scrimgeour said, taking a leisurely sip of his wine. “The wizarding world is turning against you. It will take but a few, shall we say, _unfortunate_ words in the wrong ears, and even Dumbledore’s intervention will not be able to save you from a trial of your own.”

Harry stared at him. “But that would ruin Justin’s defence.”

“The outcome of this trial means very little to _me_ , Mr Potter,” Scrimgeour said, simply. “However, I would wager that you don’t want to see your former boyfriend in Azkaban, no matter what he did to your current one.”

Harry’s mouth dropped open. “Are you threatening me, Minister?”

“Oh, no,” Scrimgeour said. “Of course not. Just pointing out that you are in a very precarious situation. I would like to do what I can to help.”

Harry jerked his chin up. “You mean in exchange for my help?”

Scrimgeour smiled. “As I said at Christmas, I believe you have a duty to the wizarding world.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, grimly. “I think you’re right about that. But somehow I don’t think it involves standing beside a Ministry who locks up innocent people, and tries to threaten me into service.”

Scrimgeour gave him a hard, incredulous look. “You are refusing my help?”

“I’ll be fine, Minister,” Harry assured him. “But thanks ever so for your concern. I’ll remember it.”

He turned on his heel and marched out of the room, Draco close on his heels. He’d chosen the wrong door, though, and they came out into a deserted hallway. Draco slammed him up against a wall, and Harry let out an ‘oomph’ as the air was knocked out of his lungs.

“Oi,” he complained, but Draco just pressed up against him, chest to hips.

“Do you know what you just did?” he breathed. “You turned your _back_ on the Minister for Magic. You called his bluff. Threatened him! Do you even realise how powerful you could become? How powerful you already are?”

Harry found himself looking at Draco’s lips wistfully, wishing Draco would just lean in just a little further and kiss him. “I don’t care,” he said, petulantly. “Whatever power I have, it’s not really mine.” He made a sharp gesture at his forehead. “It’s this. It’s always been this.”

Draco shook his head. “It might have been what made you a household name when you were an infant, but it’s not what makes you powerful now. That,” he tapped Harry’s chest, over his heart, “is right here.”


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for your comments and kudos! xx

**CHAPTER ELEVEN  
**

**SMOKE AND MIRRORS**

Part Two

Draco lay sprawled over one of the sofas in the Slytherin sixth year’s den, one leg kicked up over the arm, his head cradled in Harry’s lap. He was half asleep already. Harry was, apparently, a born masseuse. His fingers were _heavenly_ , stroking and pressing into just the right places, relieving a headache Draco hadn’t even realised he had.

He knew, in the back of his mind, that he should be working on his task, but the idea of failure had put down its poisonous roots in his mind at last, and he couldn’t bear to think about it for a moment longer. He just wanted to close his eyes and melt under Harry’s fingers, and pretend that nothing else mattered.

“Are you asleep?” Harry murmured.

It was almost ten, and Harry had finished his last detention with McGonagall an hour previously. The other Slytherins had raised their eyebrows at his presumptuous knock on the dungeon door, but not even Atwood and her cronies had dared speak out against Draco’s welcoming smile.

Adeline Cardosa – that little chit of a first-year – had even said hello, which Draco had appreciated more than she could possibly know. Then again, she clearly had a good head on her shoulders, so perhaps she did. Draco reminded himself to keep an eye out for her, if he could. There weren’t many Slytherins who had fathers in the inner circle. She might need his protection one day.

“Almost,” he replied, tilting his head up as Harry traced one finger over his eyebrow, down his nose, lingering over his lips. He smiled. “Not with you doing that.”

“Sorry,” Harry said unapologetically, and Draco caught his finger between his teeth. Encouraged by the tiny gasp, he drew it deeper into his mouth, nibbling and sucking and licking until he could feel something that was _not_ Potter’s wand nudging the side of his head.

“Merlin’s beard! Would you two get a _room_?”

Draco looked up, smirking. Nott looked revolted; he played the homophobe so well that Draco had often wondered if he might be a closet case himself. But no, Theo was hopelessly smitten with Daphne. It was quite tragic, really, the way he pined hopelessly after her. Draco had opened his mouth to say just that when he registered the way Harry had frozen. _Get a room_. Granger’s words, from that day under the great beech tree.

He settled on a simple, drawled, “Shut it, Nott.”

Nott shrugged, and didn’t say anything else.

Blaise, however, had no such scruples. “Well, if you _will_ put on your own little soft-core performance, Draco...”

“Jealous?” Draco queried, his tone quivering just on the edge of danger. Of course, Blaise was not likely to heed it. He had always had an irreverent attitude towards – well, anything of any consequence to purebloods.

“Of _you_ , Draco?” Blaise said, a sly smile playing on his lips as he gave Harry a salacious look. “Or of your latest floozy? Would you like that, my love? If I still longed for your cock in my arse?”

Draco opened his mouth to retort, only to almost jump out of his skin when Potter’s hand landed in his lap. “ _This_ cock, Zabini?” Harry said, challengingly. He palmed Draco through his robes; slow, obscene strokes, until he was almost _sweating_ with the effort to not grind up into it, to not beg him to do it harder, faster. And through it all, Harry held Blaise’s gaze with his own. “You don’t mean to say he never let you fuck _him_?”

Draco fought the urge to jerk around to see Blaise’s reaction to that. Damn it, so much for his alpha display the first time Potter had visited Slytherin!

“ _Excuse_ me?” Blaise said incredulously. “You’re telling me _you_ fuck Draco?”

“Until he begs for more,” Harry agreed. Draco made a strangled noise, trying to rise, but Harry just moved that infuriating hand up to his chest, pressing down in warning. “I suppose that explains why you have to chase after _girls_ to feel like a man, Zabini. If you weren’t good enough for Draco to even consider letting you near his arse.”

Draco smirked and relaxed again, closing his eyes. Strange, to be so secure in the knowledge that Harry Potter had his back, even in a room full of Slytherins. “I like it when you’re jealous,” he murmured.

Harry slid a thumb over Draco’s lips. “Shh. I take care of what’s mine.”

Draco felt a shiver go down his spine, and he opened his mouth again to capture that thumb.

But Blaise wasn’t finished. “Worried about losing the littlest Weasley to a Slytherin’s corrupting influence, Potter?” he said, a bite to his tone that Draco didn’t fully understand. After all, wasn’t Harry courting a Slytherin this very moment?

“Ginny makes her own choices,” Harry replied, tightly.

“And free, _informed_ choices are important to you now, are they, Potter?”

Harry sucked in a sharp breath, hand clenching into a fist on Draco’s chest. He seemed to struggle for words for a moment. “If you hurt her, Zabini, there won’t be anywhere in the world you can hide from me.”

Blaise sneered. “Likewise. But if you hurt Draco, you’ll have _all_ of Slytherin after you. Not just me.”

Draco opened his eyes in surprise. Blaise Zabini, defending his honour? It was no great surprise to hear Vince and Greg echoing the threat, punching their fists into their hands and staring at Potter as if they’d like to pound his face in. But Blaise was the last person Draco would have ever expected to be threatening Potter on his behalf.

There was an undeniably strange undercurrent to the conversation, but Draco’s mind was suddenly solely occupied with a chain of ideas. On his behalf – proxy – or rather, a substitute. Substitution. Or – a _reversal_.

He’d attempted so many different Arithmancy equations, trying to take into account every single aspect of the Vanishing Cabinet, right down to the oil finish. But then, the two cabinets weren’t quite identical, were they? They were more like mirror images, and he already knew it was working from Hogwarts to Borgin & Burkes. What if he simply needed to substitute the numbers, reverse the entire process, to open the passage the other way, from Borgin & Burkes to Hogwarts?

It was such a simple concept that he couldn’t quite believe it hadn’t occurred to him before. But his focus had been on trying to open the passage to allow the Death Eaters access _to_ Hogwarts; it had never occurred to him that he needed to open the passage _from_ Borgin & Burkes _._

Of course, it wouldn’t be easy, to reverse everything he’d calculated from this end, but it was a start. It was _more_ than a start; it was the breakthrough he’d been so desperately hoping for. It wouldn’t take him long. Hours, days at the most? And _then_ –

Almost feverish in his excitement, he surged up from the sofa and straddled Harry, taking his mouth in a hard kiss. “Come to bed,” he murmured.

Harry just blinked up at him, dazed, the beginnings of a reproach on his lips.

“I know,” Draco said impatiently, sliding his eyes to the other boys in the room. Harry’s mouth formed an ‘oh’, and he nodded, letting Draco take his hand and pull him to his feet. “We’re retiring,” Draco said, bluntly. “I expect not to be disturbed.”

“Going to play bottom bitch again, Draco?” Blaise called.

Draco flashed him a sharp smile over his shoulder. “Maybe,” he said. “Maybe not. Wouldn’t _you_ like to know?”

~*~

Hermione sat in the Gryffindor common room, a thick library book open on her lap. It was a terrible wrench not to be studying, but she just had to keep telling herself that sixth-year exams were not the NEWTs, despite the fact that studying for them really _was_ studying for the NEWTs, and how one did in these exams was a fair indicator of how one would do next year…

It didn’t actually help. But telling herself it was for Harry did. _Mostly_.

She’d finished all the books on accidental magic she could get her hands on, and not one had been able to explain how or why accidental magic would occur in those who were old enough, and educated enough, to protect themselves.

She’d tried the books on bonds, next, including those Madam Pomfrey had given her. No matter what Malfoy said, she still thought that was the likeliest explanation. But there wasn’t a single bond documented, in recent or ancient history, that mirrored the one that had formed between Harry and Malfoy. Knowledge of and consent to a bond was essential. There was just no way for one to form without those two elements, and she could be sure that Harry, at least, had had no clue.

In desperation, she’d moved on to the other books Madam Pomfrey had provided her with; those that examined the theory behind magical pathways and Healing.

They knew there were multiple pathways linking Harry and Malfoy, and that somehow they were using those pathways to share their magic – as well as increase it exponentially. As for the magic itself, it was triggered by powerful emotions, just like accidental magic in children.

Hermione sighed. However she looked at it, it all seemed to lead back to accidental magic and some kind of bond. Which, according to all the books, was impossible.

There had to be something she was missing.

“All right, Hermione?”

She looked up, smiling. Ron was hovering nearby, as if he wasn’t quite sure of his welcome. She shifted to one side so that he could squeeze into the armchair beside her. There was no one else in the common room, and the roaring fire ensured the room was toasty warm, but she wanted him close.

His freckled face lit up, and a warm, fluttery feeling filled her chest. “I’m all right,” she said, as he settled in beside her. “I just can’t figure this out.”

“What are you working on?”

She tapped her library book. “Researching Mages.”

Ron looked surprised. “Mages? Why?”

“It was something Professor McGonagall said,” she explained. “That only a Mage of the Illusionary Arts could have done what Harry did with that bed. I’d never even heard of Mages before. It’s very interesting. According to this, Mages are witches or wizards who study a particular form or branch of magic in order to master it and earn the title. Sometimes they have to go into seclusion for decades. There are over a dozen different types of Mages – Divination, Healing, War, Alchemy… Apparently Nicolas Flamel studied for a _century_ to become a Mage of Alchemy.”

“Yeah,” Ron said, puzzled. “We knew that already. You know, from back in first year when we looked him up? He’s an Alchemist.”

She shook her head at him. “I didn’t know that meant he was a Mage; that there was a title for it. I suppose I just thought of it as not so very different from being a Potions Master or something.”

“Oh. No, that’s sort of a level below.” He eyed her sideways. “You _do_ know that You-Know-Who... V-Voldemort, I mean,” as Hermione gave him an encouraging smile, “is a Dark Mage? Well, that’s what people reckon, anyway. The missing ten years. Of course, he was probably studying it long before then, from all sorts of sources, but the Dark Arts is one of the forms that requires complete isolation to master, in the end.” He lowered his voice. “Mum says it’s because no Dark Mage will ever consent to teach another, so the only way to learn is by communing with the most malevolent elements of the Wild Magic.”

Hermione stared at him. “Really.”

“Yes,” Ron said, warming to the topic. “Rumour has it Dumbledore once spent fifteen years training with a War Mage, but he left before he earned the title because – well, apparently he disagreed with the teachings. Did you know that?”

“I’d never even heard of Mages before now, Ronald,” Hermione said, irritably. “Of course I didn’t.”

“Oh,” he said again, sheepishly. “Sorry.”

She sighed. “No, don’t apologise. It’s not your fault I’m always playing catch up.” She looked down at her book. “I don’t suppose it’s possible for people to become Mages without the study?”

“Not become,” Ron said, “but they can be born, yes. They’re called Natural-born Mages.”

She brightened instantly. “So Harry and Malfoy –”

“’Fraid not,” Ron said, apologetically. “Natural-born Mages are really rare. You only ever hear of one every century or so, and there’s always some kind of affinity for a branch of magic, right from infancy. We’d’ve known ages ago if Harry was a Natural-born. Trelawney’s great-grandmother, Cassandra, was a Natural-born Mage of Divination. A True Seer. They knew it by the time she was three; she predicted the Great Snow Storm of 1886. Two idiots decided it would be great fun to try some atmospheric charms in the middle of an already bad storm. Cassandra’s parents brought her to the Ministry, and they were able to catch the two blokes and reverse the charms before half of London was destroyed. And she just barely out of nappies!”

Hermione looked intrigued. “Okay,” she said. “But Professor Trelawney sometimes makes True prophecies, doesn’t she? If she’s a Natural-born Mage as well, maybe it can manifest later in life –”

Ron snorted. “Trelawney’s practiced Divination for years. She has a bit of a talent for it, that’s all. Mostly she’s just an old fraud. She doesn’t have the attention span for the kind of intensive study it would take to become a trained Mage.”

Hermione sighed, and snapped the book shut. “Okay. So the magic Harry and Malfoy are doing is Mage-level magic, but they’re not Mages. It manifests when they feel particularly powerful emotions, just like accidental magic in children, but it’s not accidental magic. And the pathways between them are some kind of bond, but no bond that exists under the laws of magic as we understand them.”

“Harry says Malfoy reckons it’s a curse,” Ron offered.

She nodded. “Right,” she said, wearily. “Curses it is, then. I’m sure I have some books somewhere –”

“No,” Ron said, and Hermione glanced at him in surprise. “Not now. You’re going to wear yourself out like this.”

“But, Ron,” she said, wordless for a moment. “It’s _Harry_.”

“And you’re no good to him if you’re falling asleep over your books,” he said. “Come on.” He urged her up, and slung her book-bag over his shoulder. He was staggering under the weight instantly, only just managing to keep his balance. “Bloody hell! What do you have in here?”

She smiled at him, that warm, fluttery feeling returning. She leaned up to whisper in his ear. “You took me up against a _wall_ , Ronald, made me come so hard I saw stars, and my feet didn’t touch the ground _once_. And you can’t handle my schoolbag?”

He gaped at her, bright red. “M- _Mione_ –”

She found her eyes lingering on his biceps. “Do you still have Harry’s Cloak?”

“Uh, no. Had to give it back. He wanted it for the trial, just in case.”

He looked so disappointed that Hermione stretched up and kissed his cheek impulsively. “Don’t worry,” she winked. “I’ve been practicing my Disillusionment spells.”

Ron almost tripped over his own feet in his eagerness to follow her.

~*~

The clock had long past struck midnight by the time Pansy heard the unmistakable sounds of a person trying to creep, unsuccessfully, down the hall towards her. Stepping out into the middle of the hall, she called quietly, “Professor Trelawney?”

The shadowed figure gave an overdramatic start. “Oh!” She clutched a hand to her heart. “What a fright you gave me, Miss Parkinson!”

“Sorry, professor,” Pansy said. “Are you all right?”

“Fine, fine,” Trelawney said, fanning herself as she came closer. Pansy frowned as she caught the smell of sherry again. “Are you sure you were not followed?”

“Positive, professor.”

“Good, good,” she said, looking around suspiciously. “Well, we shall have to make do with your wand for light, I think. No sense in drawing Unwanted Attention to ourselves, if there are Others abroad tonight.”

Pansy nodded again. Humouring the woman didn’t take much effort, and it would be well worth it if the Infinity Mirror did what she said it would. “Yes, professor.”

“Aha!” Trelawney had spied the mirror, and she tripped towards it eagerly. “Now, remember what I told you! Only True Seers can compel visions. Even, or perhaps especially, from mediums as powerful as this. What you must do is humble yourself before it, and ask the Mirror for the specific choice, or choices, you want to See. I cannot guarantee it will work for you, but of all the students in my NEWT-level classes, you are one of the very few who I think may stand a chance of succeeding.” She looked mournful. “So many of the Unenlightened believe Divination to be a joke, or an easy way to gain good grades. Only a very few, like you and I, realise its True Potential.”

“You’ve always told us that belief in our abilities, as well as the authenticity of the art itself, is paramount to achieving a true Reading,” Pansy said, earnestly. “I believe whole-heartedly.”

Trelawney looked pleased. “Of course you do, my dear. I must warn you, however, that it is the Mirror that will decide what you See. Scrying is a mysterious Art, and you are not always shown what you think you _want_ to see, but what you _need_ to.”

With that proclamation, she turned and began to drift away.

“Wait. Professor!” Pansy called. “What do I say?”

Trelawney turned back, blinking through her thick glasses. “Ah, yes,” she said vaguely. “The incantation. Very well, kneel in front of the mirror – the true mirror, not the tapestry, and fix your friend and the decision he must make _clearly_ in your mind.”

She waited until Pansy was settled, and then said, “I will tell you the incantation now, but you must not use it until you are Deep in your Trance. Then, and only then, repeat it.”

Pansy nodded. “Yes, professor.”

“Very well. Listen closely:

 _Mirror of Infinity,_  
 _Of Eternity, Of the Way Ahead,_  
 _Show Me the Paths,_  
 _Unfurl the Ways and Errands that Twine and Meet,_  
 _And Go, Ever On,_  
 _From Twixt_  
 _This Heart’s Dilemma_.”

Trelawney ended on a breathless whisper, and took several, dramatic steps back, before turning and floating away.

Pansy shook her head, but knelt, her heart racing. She stared at the Mirror for a long moment, until she was absolutely sure Trelawney was gone. Then she focused, seeking out a variation or imperfection in the Mirror’s surface that would provide her with her means to fall into a trance. She had to concentrate on calming her breathing, first, and then her heart. And then she saw it. A tiny crack, about midway up.

She smiled. Time ceased to matter. Fixing Draco in her mind, she began the difficult process of scrying into his future.

~*~

Harry woke the next morning to find himself alone, the bed next to him cold. Draco wasn’t in the room, nor was he in his bathroom. Nonplussed, Harry peered out into the den. Crabbe was the only one there, laboriously reading a letter. Harry shut the door again without disturbing him.

There was a tight feeling in his chest. Draco had taken almost an hour to get to sleep the previous night, staring at Harry the whole time; eagerly, _hungrily_. Almost _daring_ Harry to break his vow. Only the memory of the Room of Requirement, and the thousands upon thousands of roses, had stayed Harry’s hand. Just.

He had a terrible suspicion that the reason for Draco’s sudden jubilance was his task. A breakthrough, at last. And Harry still had no fucking clue how to convince Draco to trust him, to take that final step and say _yes_.

He waited until the breakfast hour was almost over, and the majority of Slytherins had left for the day, but Draco never reappeared. He was forced to make his way out of Slytherin by himself, and when he walked into the Great Hall with only ten minutes to spare before class, expecting it to be mostly empty, he found nearly the entire student body there instead.

He stopped short as all eyes turned to him. People were whispering, and everywhere, there was the ruffling of the Quibbler pages.

Oh, right. The interview.

Harry sighed, glancing at the Slytherin table. Draco wasn’t there. Which meant he would have to face the backlash from his Quibbler interview without even his lover’s comforting presence across the room.

How the student population had come by so many copies, Harry didn’t know. Even Hermione had one open at the Gryffindor table.

“I ordered it just for today,” she said. “I wanted to make sure it was what we wanted.”

Harry glanced reluctantly at the two-page spread, one whole page of which was a picture of his face. Large letters spelt out, ‘HARRY POTTER TELLS ALL.’ It looked like it continued over the page, and over the page again, judging by the way people were flicking through it. Had he really talked that much?

“And is it?”

“It’s _perfect_ ,” Hermione assured him. “Mr Lovegood did exactly what we asked, and printed you word-for-word. It’s just you. Listen – ‘I couldn’t believe he was gone. I really didn’t believe it; I kept waiting for him to jump out from behind the veil and laugh, like he always did. And then Bellatrix ran, and I chased after her. I was so angry. She made it all the way to the Atrium before I caught up. She taunted me, asking me if I loved him, and I – I just hated her so much in that moment, I wanted her to _hurt_. So I l cast Crucio at her. She didn’t scream. She just _laughed_. And then she tried to use it on me, but I ducked, and we fought until –’”

“Hermione,” Harry interrupted.

“What?” She looked up, and saw his face. “Oh. Oh, sorry, Harry.”

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’d just rather not re-live it again, if it’s all the same to you. It was bad enough last night.” At least Luna and her father seemed to have done his interview justice. Or they hadn’t added in rubbish like ‘his eyes glistening with the ghosts of his past’, anyway, even though that would probably have been far more accurate this time around.

Still, he wasn’t convinced it would sway public opinion like Ron and Hermione and Luna all thought it would. Especially since, given the whispers filling the Great Hall, people were far more interested in what he’d revealed about Sirius than the battle.

_“His godfather, it says –”_

_“– never was a betrayal, it was Pettigrew all along –”_

_“Peter Pettigrew. Muggleborn, I think – Gryffindor –”_

_“Turned into a rat – unregistered Animagus –”_

_“– framed and then wrongfully imprisoned for twelve years, killed just after they reunite – it’s just like one of Shakespeare’s tragedies –”_

_“Who’s Shakespeare?”_

“I think outing Pettigrew might have been a tactical error,” Harry sighed.

Ron looked up from his porridge. “I think it was a stroke of brilliance, actually, mate. Whatever we said, they were always going to exonerate Justin. At least this way, you got to tell your story, and then take the focus off that by telling Sirius’ story. People aren’t talking about the Unforgivables anymore.”

“You always did want everyone to know the truth about Sirius,” Hermione pointed out.

“Yeah. One year too late,” Harry said, a little bitterly.

Hermione looked stricken. “It really is almost a year now, isn’t it?”

“I think he would’ve liked that you exposed Wormtail,” Ron reflected. “It’s about time he was ratted out. Excuse the pun. Bet V-Voldemort’ll be pleased.”

“Oh, I bet,” Harry said dryly, but the thought made him smile all the same.

~*~

After a week’s worth of evening detentions with Professor McGonagall, Harry was unenthusiastic, to say the least, at the thought of his Saturday detention with Filch. His homework was mounting rapidly, and Hermione was hounding him about falling behind with his study plan. He’d been given some extensions on his coursework, but what with the trial, and Draco, and the constant detentions...

And this time, Draco wasn’t there to rescue him. Harry would be stuck in this bloody detention for _four_ hours, which meant another four hours without any idea what Draco was doing, or how close he was to completing his task, or if he was even all right.

The caretaker – a wonderfully ironic title for a man who was about as far from caring as it was possible to be – directed him outside, down past Hagrid’s hut to the Forbidden Forest. Apparently he had been overruled on Harry continuing to clean the floor of Great Hall with a toothbrush, because he looked very disgruntled.

“Professor Snape has requested that you collect shade-root, for the seventh years’ Invisibility potions next week.”

“Snape?” Harry said, distracted from his concern for Draco. “What about Professor Slughorn?”

Filch glowered at him. “What’s it to you, boy? Snape set your detention, so that’s what you’ll do. He said you’d know what the plants look like, and if you _don’t_ ,” he grinned, revealing chipped, yellow-stained teeth, “to try getting down on your hands and knees and digging in the dirt between the roots of Blackthorn trees.”

Harry just stared at him stonily. Blackthorn trees had vicious thorns, and grew in dense thickets in the swampy ground just inside the edge of the Forbidden Forest. Not only that, but shade-root was fiercely coveted by quoles; nasty little creatures with no teeth but plenty of sharp claws. Harry remembered quoles featuring quite heavily in Chapter Fifteen of the _Monster Book of Monsters_ ; naturally, Hagrid was very fond of them, and had spent almost a month on them in third year. Personally, Harry would have been quite happy never to have seen one of the vicious little buggers ever again.

Satisfied, Filch turned and stomped away, leaving Harry to his fate.

Four hours later, he trudged back up to the castle, tired and grumpy, his hands stained almost black, robes soaked and deep scratches all over his face, hands and arms.

Filch had disappeared, so Harry made his way down to the dungeons, where he met Snape coming out of his old office. His brow was creased in a heavy scowl, but it lifted the moment he caught sight of Harry.

Dark eyes glinted maliciously as Harry held up the two bags full of shade-root. “Woefully inadequate, Potter, as usual.”

Harry ignored him. “Where’s Professor Slughorn?”

Snape sneered at him. “When the goings-on in this school become your business, Mr Potter, I will be sure to let you know. Until then, I suggest you keep your nose out of matters that do not concern you. Unless, of course, you would like detention every day for the next year.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry muttered. _No, sir, three bags full, sir. Or rather, two bags_.

Snape glared at him as if he’d heard the insolent, unspoken thought – which Harry wouldn’t put past him – and grabbed the bags out of Harry’s hands. “Get out of my sight, Potter.”

~*~

Apart from Neville, tending his Mimbulus Mimbletonia by the window, there was only a small group of seventh-years in the common room, faces creased in desperation as they swotted for their fast-approaching NEWTs.

“Harry!” Hermione exclaimed, shocked. “What on _earth_ –?”

Harry grimaced. “Shade-root.”

“You should be in the infirmary,” she said reproachfully, but drew her wand when Harry shook his head.

“Thanks,” he said gratefully, as she waved it over his arms. “I’ve had enough of that place to last me a lifetime.”

“Madam Pomfrey would be better at this,” she warned, but her lips didn’t move in an incantation once. Harry grinned. She tutted, but smiled back at him, tucking her wand away. “Why were you collecting shade-root?”

“Invisibility potions next week, apparently,” Harry said. “The better question is, why did _Snape_ ask me to collect it?”

“He was the Potions professor here for over a decade,” Hermione pointed out. “He designed the curriculum Slughorn’s been using, and he’s kept that storeroom stocked for years. And he’s a Potions Master. It’s not as if he’s going to give up brewing, just because he’s got the DADA position at last.”

“Maybe it’s something Dumbledore’s preparing for war,” Ron suggested. “Invisibility potions could be really useful in battle.”

“Or dangerous,” Hermione said. “How would you avoid friendly fire?”

“Not to mention if Snape knows about it, then Voldemort will too, and he’ll just come up with a way around it,” Harry said. “What is Dumbledore _thinking_? It makes no sense to keep taking Snape into his confidence!”

“Well, why don’t you ask him?” Hermione said, sensibly. “He has to have a reason.”

Harry stared at her. “Right. Because Dumbledore’s been so forthcoming recently. Or ever.”

Hermione sighed. “I know. And I agree with you, Harry. But maybe if you told him the truth about Malfoy, The Plan, all of it… he might be more inclined to take you into his confidence. The end of term’s coming up, and Malfoy’s bound to make his move before then. Time’s running out. We need to be ready, and that means we need Dumbledore.”

“It might not matter,” Harry said. “Draco’s been stuck on his task for ages.” Never mind that he might just have figured it out, last night. “And even if he manages to pull it off, somehow – he won’t go through with it. He likes to think that he will, for his mother’s sake, but he’s not a killer.”

“That’s nice, mate,” Ron said, in that maddening way adults sometimes had of vaguely praising a child’s drawing without ever truly looking at it. “But Hermione’s right. We should be prepared for anything.”

Harry glared at him. “Meaning what? He’s not a criminal yet. Why do you have to treat him like one? You’re as bad as Dumbledore! And everyone at that damned trial!”

Ron’s eyebrows rose. “Mate,” he said, slowly, “Malfoy _is_ a criminal, remember? He almost killed me. And Katie. You said he admitted it.”

“Those were accidents,” Harry said, dismissively.

“Harry,” Hermione said, with a sudden, deep frown.

“I’m sorry,” he said, not without a touch of impatience, “but it’s not like he went after Ron or Katie deliberately, is it? He was an idiot, yes, and careless, but his attempts at murder have been weak, half-hearted at best. It’s been months since the mead. He’s not a murderer. He doesn’t want to kill anyone. He thinks he has to. That’s what will make the difference, in the end. He won’t be able to go through with it.”

“And if he does?” Hermione asked, gently. “I know you want to think the best of him, Harry. I really admire that in you, especially after the way he’s treated us for the past six years. But I don’t want to see you hurt if Malfoy makes the wrong choice.”

Harry sighed. “Yeah,” he said. “I get that. But he won’t. I’m going to make sure of it.”

~*~

Dumbledore looked up from his desk as Harry opened the door. He looked weary, but straightened, laying down his quill. “Ah, Harry,” he said. “Just the person I needed to see. I have some disturbing news.”

“Sir?” Harry said.

“Rita Skeeter,” Dumbledore said, “has come to me with compelling evidence that Mr Malfoy is plotting to murder me.”

Harry’s heart stopped. “ _What_?”

Dumbledore nodded. “I am afraid she has been skulking around the castle undetected. In, ah, Animagus form, apparently. She claims she has had ample time to do this because of her unemployment, for which she blames your friend, Miss Granger. Her animosity was quite startling.”

Harry stared at him, his mind blank. All he could think was: _fuck_.

He stumbled forward, sinking into the chair opposite the desk. “I didn’t know she’d lost her job,” he said. Though in retrospect, it made sense. Hermione had made it practically impossible for her to write the nasty articles she was most famous for. “We, uh, threatened to turn her into the Ministry as an unregistered Animagus if she printed anything we didn’t like.”

“So she mentioned,” Dumbledore said, dryly. “More than once. You and your friends have made quite the enemy, my boy. She seems quite determined to turn the public against you.”

“Well, she doesn’t need any help there,” Harry muttered. “But what’s that got to with Draco’s task? How’d she even… I mean, is she _sure_?”

“I did not press her,” Dumbledore said. “The truth is, I learned I was the subject of Mr Malfoy’s assassination attempts quite some time ago, from a source I trust absolutely.”

“You –” Harry stared at him, stunned. “You’re saying you _knew_ Draco’s been trying to kill you? For how long?”

“Since he was given the task, during the summer holidays,” Dumbledore said. “I am truly sorry, my dear boy. But I could not entrust this information to anyone, even you. To make anyone – even the boy himself – suspicious that I knew the details of his task, would have been catastrophic. I know you don’t believe I care for Mr Malfoy, but I would _not_ have a sixteen-year-old boy die in my place.”

“Of course not, sir,” Harry said, automatically. But… Voldemort had never bested Dumbledore in a duel. He’d run from him, in the Ministry last year. Surely he wouldn’t expect a _teenager_ to do what he couldn’t? Harry scowled. Oh, who was he kidding? Of course he would. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Why are you telling me this now? If you’ve known all this time –”

“Unfortunately, Ms Skeeter’s interference has changed the situation. Even if she were not determined to sell the story to the Daily Prophet –”

“Why would she do that?” Harry interrupted, horrified.

“She is angry, Harry,” Dumbledore explained. “She blames you and your friends for the loss of her livelihood. When your relationship with Mr Malfoy was outed to the press, she saw it as an opportunity not only for revenge, but to regain her job.”

“But – but she can’t,” Harry said. “We’ll turn her into the Ministry if she does!”

“I’m afraid that threat no longer concerns her,” Dumbledore said. “With Voldemort’s attacks increasing in frequency, the Ministry is overstretched. One unregistered Animagus would be very low on their list of priorities right now.”

“So, what, she’s going to expose Draco’s task to get to _me_? That doesn’t even make sense!”

Dumbledore sighed. “On the contrary. The public has just seen you lose control of powerful magic in our highest court. Senior Undersecretary Umbridge has accused you of using an Unforgivable. The insinuations Ms Skeeter could make – pillow talk, the potential for information being leaked to the other side, your corruption at Mr Malfoy’s hands –”

“ _Sir_ ,” Harry blurted. “I would never – you _know_ I wouldn’t –!”

“Not so very long ago, my dear boy, I would have believed you unreservedly,” Dumbledore said. “But your feelings for Mr Malfoy, and what they have led you to do – breaking rules for no other reason than selfish gain, _lying_ to those who love you... I can’t hide how much that has hurt and shaken me.”

There was a hard lump in Harry’s throat. “I never meant –”

Dumbledore held up a hand. “That, I do at least believe. Your intentions have always been, and will always be, honourable. It is one of your very finest qualities, and what I hold close to my heart whenever I fear you are venturing too far down the path I myself paid the price for with Grindelwald.”

“I’m not – this isn’t the same as you and Grindelwald,” Harry said, frustrated. “I’m sorry, sir, but it’s really not. Grindelwald was evil. Draco’s not. He’s just caught up on the wrong side of the war, trying his best to keep his family alive.”

“And because,” Dumbledore said, shrewdly, “you are not actually in love with your ‘bad boy’.”

Harry paled, and then flushed. “You’re right,” he said, and didn’t miss the gleam of triumph, and what looked like relief, in Dumbledore’s eyes. “I was given an opportunity, and I was so sure Draco was a Death Eater, but no one would listen to me. I had to take it, sir. I thought I could convince him to defect. I’m sorry I lied to you, but we had to make it as believable as possible.”

“I understand,” Dumbledore said. “I’ve suspected as much for some time.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, helplessly.

“You were doing what you thought was right,” Dumbledore said. “I cannot condemn you for that, no matter how much I may abhor what you’ve done in pursuit of your goal. Not the least of which was not sharing your plan with me.”

Harry frowned, struck by the injustice of that. “With all due respect, sir, you didn’t tell me you knew Draco was a Death Eater. You didn’t tell me you knew he’s supposed to kill you. If you’d _told_ me –”

“If I’d told you, we would have been in the same situation we are now,” Dumbledore said, reprovingly. “A third party now has knowledge of Mr Malfoy’s task, and I’m afraid I have no choice but to expel him.”

“ _What_?” Harry jerked to his feet. “No –!”

“You must understand that it will appear very strange to Ms Skeeter if I do not. Not to mention the Ministry, the school board, and the general public. She had no obligation to warn me of what she’d discovered. I believe she came to me immediately upon her discovery, and was entirely sincere in her concern for my well-being. She spoke of reporting Mr Malfoy to the Ministry before publishing her story. Of course, she will still have the ‘scoop’, as they say, but her reasons in coming to me first appear to be selfless.”

“But –” Harry couldn’t think. Terror pounded through his veins. “But you’ll talk to her, won’t you, sir? Convince her not to report him. Tell her it’s Order business, or something. Something vital to the war effort. You have to!”

Dumbledore frowned. “I’m afraid such a gambit would require her not only to put aside her desire for petty revenge against you, but also to keep her mouth shut until Mr Malfoy has completed his task. One accidental mention to the wrong person… do you really think we can trust her to that extent?”

Harry’s jaw flexed. “No,” he agreed. “So we have to offer him sanctuary now.” It was the only option. Draco would see that, surely.

But Dumbledore shook his head. “I’m sorry, Harry. He may be a child, but he is also a Death Eater, and I believe there is an element to his task we are as yet unaware of. I do not want a child’s soul torn apart in the act of killing me, but I am equally determined not to leave this school unprotected. If we offer him sanctuary when he is not _fully_ committed to defecting, he would be free to adjust his plan accordingly. We cannot risk that. We cannot risk his safety, or the safety of the school.”

Harry stared at him. “But if you expel him, Voldemort will _kill_ him.”

“And hundreds of other children and professors would be safe,” Dumbledore said, gently. “ _You_ would be safe, Harry. You know you are the only one who can end this war.”

Harry pressed his fingers to the desk, white-knuckled. He felt like he was going to shake apart. “You’re going to send him to his death to – to save _me_?”

“No,” Dumbledore said. “I still intend to offer him a way out. But only once he has exposed himself in the act of completing his task.”

“What about before then?” Harry asked, desperately. “What if he defects first?”

“Do you think he will?” Dumbledore asked.

Harry hesitated.

Dumbledore’s face was sympathetic. “I give you my word,” he said. “If he comes to me – or you – before he completes his task, I will give him sanctuary.” He didn’t sound as if he thought that was likely. “In the meantime, I have made a deal with Ms Skeeter. Mutual gain for both parties, eliminating the need for explanation, and guaranteeing her silence. Unfortunately, it requires a sacrifice on your part, Harry.”

“Anything!” Harry said, eagerly. “I’ll do anything!”

“Do not be too quick to agree,” Dumbledore warned. “You will not like it.”

“Whatever it is, I’ll do it,” Harry insisted. “It’s his _life_ , professor.”

“And that is an admirable attitude, my dear boy,” Dumbledore sighed. “I just wish your concern for his welfare had led you to confide in me earlier. This game of smoke and mirrors you have been playing with Mr Malfoy could have destroyed him. It may still.” Harry bit down on his instinctive protest, waiting. “I know this will be hard for you, but you must tell him that it is over between you, as soon as possible.”

Harry sucked in a breath.

“Do you understand, Harry?” Dumbledore said, looking concerned. “You must break up with him. And,” holding Harry’s uncomprehending gaze, “just as importantly, you must give me your solemn vow not to go _anywhere_ near him again until his decision is made.”


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for your comments and kudos! Just a little warning - this one's a bit rough on the ol' heart! xx

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

**THE PATH NOT TAKEN**

_As music wafts the form aloft at its melodious pleasure,_  
_Now breaking through the woven chain of the entangled dance,_  
_From where the ranks the thickest press, a bolder pair advance,_  
_The path they leave behind them lost – wide open the path beyond,_  
_The way unfolds or closes up as by magic wand._  
~ Friedrich von Schiller

Part One

Harry broke the news to Ron, Hermione and Seamus the next morning. It was impossible to get any privacy in Gryffindor before breakfast, so he waved them into an empty classroom on the way to the Great Hall.

Ron, at least, took it philosophically. “Pity,” he said. “You were close, I reckon. But if Dumbledore was never going to be on board, it was doomed from the start. At least he’s planning to offer Malfoy sanctuary. It might be better coming from him, anyway.”

“You have got to be KIDDING me!” Seamus said, furiously. “Harry, there’s no guarantee Malfoy will accept Dumbledore’s offer! That’s _why_ Pansy approached us in the first place! He doesn’t _trust_ Dumbledore! If you’ve turned your back on him, he’ll never go for it!”

“I’m not turning my back on him,” Harry said. He’d given it a lot of thought, tossing and turning all night. He knew what he was going to do. “I’ll tell him everyone thinks – _I_ think – that I’m putting him in too much danger by being with him. He’ll accept that. And if I make it clear that I’ll still protect him when he defects, he’ll know I’ll stand by Dumbledore’s offer, when the time comes.”

Seamus shook his head urgently. “He trusts you, Harry! He has no reason to trust Dumbledore! Why should he? And you’re going to just let all that go to waste?”

“I have to, Seam! If Rita Skeeter exposes him as a Death Eater, he’s _dead_. If Dumbledore expels him, he’s dead. You get that, right? At least this way, he has a chance!”

Seamus snarled. “You tell _Pansy_ that! After everything she’s done, everything _you’ve_ done, you’re just going to give up? Just like that? What CHANCE do they have without you?”

“I am not giving up!” Harry yelled back. “I don’t have a CHOICE!”

Seamus shouted in rage and frustration, stamping out of the room with fury in every line of his body. He slammed the door.

Harry glared at it, helpless tears in his eyes. “I hate this,” he muttered, throwing himself into a chair. “I hate this! But what can I do?”

He didn’t have a hope of rescuing Draco’s mother without Dumbledore’s support, and Draco would never defect unless he believed, absolutely, that Harry could protect them both. 

Ron just patted his shoulder consolingly, but Hermione said, “Harry, I hate to say it, but I agree with Seamus.” Harry snapped around to look at her, and she held up a hand. “No, just listen. It makes no sense for Dumbledore to give you an ultimatum like this.”

Harry sighed, subsiding. “It’s Dumbledore,” he said. Two blank expressions met his words. “Draco’s target. It’s Dumbledore.”

Ron gaped at him. “ _What?_ ”

“Oh,” Hermione breathed, her face falling. “Oh, _no_. Of course, the mead, but – oh, no wonder Malfoy’s been so frightened all year!”

“Exactly,” Harry said, grimly.

Her brows twitched together. “Still, it doesn’t make sense, Harry. Dumbledore is revered throughout the wizarding world. A story like that would be _huge_. If Skeeter really thinks the Ministry wouldn’t go after her for being unregistered right now, she could just write it. She’d be a hero for saving Dumbledore. Don’t tell me she hasn’t thought that through. She’s intelligent. It’s crazy to think she’d take a deal so unfavourable to her.”

Ron coughed. “Well, you _did_ kind of get her fired, Hermione. That kind of thing might make a person hold a grudge.”

“So she gets some petty revenge on Harry, which hurts me, fine,” Hermione said. There was more anger than guilt in her tone. “But if she exposes Malfoy, and their relationship, she gets her career back _and_ far better revenge against us. Why would she think breaking you up would be better than turning the entire wizarding world against you?”

“Maybe she really is trying to do the right thing, like Dumbledore said,” Ron suggested, doubtfully.

“Or maybe,” Hermione said, with awful weight, “this whole deal was Dumbledore’s idea. Maybe he made it worth her while, somehow. Offered her an exclusive after the war, or something. Blackmailed her, even.”

“Hermione,” Harry chided. “It’s _Dumbledore_.”

“Right,” she said. “Dumbledore, who is well aware of the connection between you and Malfoy. He _must_ see that it’s counterproductive to separate you at this point. What difference does it make if he offers Malfoy sanctuary now or later, unless it’s part of some larger plan, some larger design?”

Harry sighed. “It is. Draco’s not ready, you know that. So does Dumbledore. He said he always knew Draco was supposed to kill him. He’s been keeping an eye on him through Snape, so he knows Draco wouldn’t defect even if he offered, right now. And if he _does_ offer, he’s admitting he knows Draco is working for Voldemort. Which puts Draco in an even worse position. That’s why he has to wait until Draco commits, one way or another. He’s been planning this, all along. To try to save Draco.”

“Wait,” Ron said. “Back up. You’re saying Dumbledore _knew_ Malfoy was trying to kill him? This whole year? So… while you were telling him Malfoy was a Death Eater, he not only knew, but –”

“He was protecting him. He’s _still_ protecting him.”

“By threatening to expel him if you don’t break it off with him?” Hermione said, sceptically.

“It wasn’t a threat,” Harry said. “He’s trying to protect the school, stop Draco from killing him or changing his plan last-minute, _and_ save Draco in the end. He can’t tell Skeeter the truth or let her go to print, or he’s risking all of that. He had to make a deal. It was the best he could do.”

Hermione shook her head. “That still doesn’t explain why Skeeter accepted it. And what about the Room of Requirement? That must have been where she discovered what Malfoy was doing. Why didn’t Dumbledore mention that?”

Harry frowned. That was a good point. “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe Dumbledore decided it was too awful to tell us? It’s not like Draco would win in a fair fight.” Which meant, whatever it was, it was far worse than the necklace and poisoned mead. What had taken Draco so long to get right?

“This is all just speculation,” Hermione said, frustrated. “We need facts. This isn’t just about Malfoy anymore; it’s about all the Slytherins. Pansy, Adeline. We can’t just sit back and let The Plan fall apart because of _Rita Skeeter_.”

“The Plan falls apart without Dumbledore, too,” Harry pointed out, and Hermione sighed, nodding reluctantly. “I have to do this, Hermione. Please tell me you understand. I don’t think I can do this without your support.”

Her eyes softened. “You don’t have to. We’re behind you, Harry. Always.”

~*~

Draco sat in a secluded corner of the library, trying to keep his eyes open as he worked through their last essay of term. He’d spent all day and all night in the Room, and then remembered there was an essay due Monday which he hadn’t even started. He’d used the Time-Turner to go back, and had been in the library all night, again, researching and writing the twenty inches required.

He rounded off a paragraph on the difficulties inherent in Transfiguring the human body, and set his quill down. Only the conclusion to go now, but he was far too tired, and far too preoccupied, to finish it this morning.

He was _this_ close to solving the equations he needed to open the passage from Borgin & Burkes. It was making him jittery with excitement and fear. Of course, part of that was the Invigoration Draught. He was struggling to get even five minutes half-life out of a normal dose now. If he hadn’t developed such a tolerance for the damned potion, his current intake probably would have killed him.

And then there was Harry. He hadn’t seen Harry for an entire day, and night – twice. He hadn’t even appeared at breakfast.

Draco’s nerves were raw, shattered. If Granger and Weasley had been at breakfast, he might have considered asking them where he was, just to provide some relief from the nervous tension. But they were missing, too, and he daren't go to the Headmaster. What if his task had been compromised? It had been _weeks_ since he’d gone this long without seeing Harry. What if, even now, the Headmaster was plotting to stop him?

He stared down at his fists, clenched on the table in front of him, and tried not to shake.

A hand on his arm made him startle. He cried out, jerking away and leaping to his feet. His wand fell naturally into his hand, and he twisted to see –

 _Pansy_.

“Bloody fucking _hell_ , Parkinson!” he gasped, his heart trying to beat out of his chest.

“Sorry, love,” she said. “I need to talk to you. It’s important. I couldn’t find you anywhere yesterday.”

Not so very surprising, Draco thought, considering he hadn’t left the Room once all day. “What is it?” he said.

“I’ve Seen something,” she said.

Draco’s interest waned. “Not this again.” He turned to grab his cloak, intending to head back up to the Room (and possibly take a circuitous route that would pass not-so-coincidentally by Gryffindor tower).

Pansy grabbed his hand. “I know you’re sceptical, Draco,” she said, her voice pleading. “But you have to listen to me. I’ve done it, finally. I’ve Seen your future. The paths that branch off from decisions you will make in the very near future.”

Draco frowned at her. “What decisions?”

“Let me show you,” she said. “Please. _Please_ , Draco.”

“You know I don’t have the gift for Divination –”

“I know,” she said, pulling out a Pensieve. She set it twirling in the air between them, and the blue water-mist of memories was reflected in her eyes as she looked at him over it. “Please, love. Your choices, here and now, will shape the future. Not only your own, but the whole _world’s_. It’s that important. Your life, your future, your happiness, _Potter’s_ happiness, the war, people’s _lives_ , the future of the entire wizarding world... all of it hinges on _you_.”

Draco stared at her. “Potter is part of my future?”

“If you want him to be,” Pansy said. “In some of the paths, a big part. The others… you’ll have to See for yourself. Will you look?”

He was conscious of a sinking feeling in his stomach. “If you think it’s that important.”

“It’s _imperative_ ,” she stressed. “And, Draco?” She held his gaze. “You should know, whatever your decision, I will stand with you.”

Draco nodded slowly. “All right,” he said, and leaned forward over the Pensieve. He felt his feet leaving the ground, and then he was falling.

He landed in a Hogwarts hallway not so very different from the one he’d left. Pansy was on her knees, chanting an incantation in front of a mirror that was vaguely familiar to him. There was a tapestry on the opposite wall, showing a reflection of Pansy’s back. Draco remembered reading about something like that in one of the many books in the Manor library.

The Eternity Mirror? Infinity? It was powerful, anyway, and it made sense now that Pansy had finally succeeded in her attempts at scrying.

Memory-Pansy straightened, and opened her eyes. The Mirror sprang to life.

Draco moved forward, turning with her as she looked from the Mirror to the Tapestry. It showed a dense, snarled web of paths, reflecting each other in the two mirrors. They were twined together, like the branches of a tree, extending into infinity. Surely it wasn’t possible to divine anything from such a tangled weave?

Then a picture flashed forward.

He was standing in front of the Vanishing Cabinet, a letter in his hands. Draco’s heart rose into his throat. That was _the_ letter; the one he’d written months ago, in preparation for the moment he fixed the Vanishing Cabinet. His Mirror-self closed his eyes, and spoke a word. The letter went up in flames.

Draco sucked in a breath. _Fuck. Fuck!_

The scene faded, and another flashed up on the mirror: Harry, arguing with Dumbledore. Dumbledore looked stony-faced, but he sighed, and nodded. Then, abruptly, another scene: dozens of people, attacking the wards at Malfoy Manor. He saw Harry, Dumbledore. People who could only be part of the mysterious Order. Which meant… he’d _defected_. He’d defected, and the Order was trying to rescue his mother.

But the next scene was of the Manor’s ballroom, where the Dark Lord often held court. He was seated on the garish throne he had built for himself, looking pleased. Dumbledore’s body was at his feet. There was a commotion, and Draco’s mother was dragged into the room. She was emaciated, weeping sores on her body. The Dark Lord waved a hand, and Bellatrix stepped forward. Her lips moved, and there was a green flash.

His mother crumpled.

Draco stumbled back from the Mirror, clapping his hands over his mouth. It wasn’t real. _It wasn’t real_.

But then there was a cell in Azkaban, his father starting up from his bed. Another green flash. Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom; Draco crying. Harry tried to put his arms around him, and Draco shoved him away, screaming. A small, windowless room, with Snape bringing him food. A confrontation with Pettigrew. Draco was slammed up against a wall, a silver hand around his throat. His face went blue, eyes rolling up.

The branches shifted.

Back to Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom, and he buried his face in Harry’s robes instead. A tent, in the middle of a forest. Draco ripped a locket off Weasley’s neck. He was ushered into the Manor in the dead of night by men in dark cloaks, thrown at his Aunt Bella’s feet. The Dark Lord Apparated in. A flash of green.

“ _No_ ,” Pansy said.

She was weeping, he realised. Tears streaming down her face. Draco wanted to flee; to pull himself out of the Pensieve and pretend he’d never seen any of this. He didn’t need to. He _knew_ this. Defying the Dark Lord would always mean death, one way or another.

But the branches shifted again. He stood facing Dumbledore on top of the Astronomy Tower, Bellatrix whispering in his ear. The old wizard was unarmed, weak, cowering. Draco pointed his wand at him with trembling fingers.

Draco felt his own fingers twitch towards his wand. He mouthed the incantation for the Killing Curse, feeling sick, his heart hammering in his chest. But in the Mirror, his future-self _lowered the wand_.

Dumbledore fell, anyway, to Snape’s wand.

“Merlin,” Draco gasped, shaking. “Merlin, _Merlin_ –”

The Manor; a meeting of the inner circle. Nagini slithered down the length of the dining room table, towards a woman twisting upside-down in the air. Professor Burbage. He tortured a Muggle woman, tears in his eyes. Harry at his feet, face swollen but unmistakable. Flames overtook the Room of Requirement, and Crabbe died.

“ _Expelliarmus!_ ” Harry shouted, and the Dark Lord died.

But it didn’t end there. The flashes of the future kept coming. He lived, to see his parents stand trial; his father given the Dementor’s Kiss, his mother sentenced to house arrest, saved only from living death by Harry’s testimony. Hit Wizards stripped the Manor of his family heirlooms and vaults, and then sold the Manor right from under them. He married a young woman with pretty blonde hair, but there was no happiness in their faces at the wedding. It was a loveless, miserable marriage, the only bright spot was an irrepressible little boy with white-blond hair like his own.

Draco sank to his knees. He felt numb. Hopeless.

 _No_ , he thought. _No_. He wasn’t going to let this happen. He was going to open the Vanishing Cabinet, and he was going to kill Dumbledore.

But the branches shifted, again: Dumbledore stood on the Astronomy tower, and Draco spoke the Killing Curse.

He watched, horrified, as Dumbledore fell again, but this time – his face changed. The path unfolded, and he grew cold, and hard. Torture, death; he didn’t flinch from it. The Dark Lord murdered Harry in cold blood, and Draco dumped his body outside the Manor’s wards, as if he was nothing more than rubbish to be disposed of. His mother pleaded with him, hand on his arm. Draco raised his wand. A green flash.

“Oh, Draco, _no_!” Pansy cried.

Draco stared at the Mirror blankly. It wasn’t possible. He would _never_ –

Another scene. He turned away. He couldn’t watch. He _wouldn’t_ watch a future where he could murder his own mother.

“Yes!” Pansy said. “Yes, _yes_ –”

He glanced back. She was leaning forward eagerly, touching the Mirror. He wiped away tears, trying to focus. The branches had shifted again; another path, then. His future self was facing Dumbledore again, this time in a battle-scarred hallway. Draco felt sick. There was no happy ending for him, no matter how optimistic Pansy obviously was. How many paths was she going to force him to watch?

 _All of them_ , he thought. Until she found one where he didn't just live; he _thrived_.

He forced himself to pay attention. Bellatrix was there. Which meant he’d still opened the Cabinet.

So many branches, so many paths, and they were so tangled, shifting back and forth to different points on the same branch, he wasn’t always sure where they diverged. Sometimes he saw almost the same scene, in a different path, and he started to lose track. So much darkness, and pain, and suffering. So much death, and all resulting from _his_ decisions.

He killed Dumbledore.

He didn’t.

He presented Harry to the Dark Lord. He tortured Harry in the Manor dungeons, a Muggle whip in hand. Harry died, but this time in the Dark Moon Ritual at the Manor. Harry didn’t die. Harry died again, chest ripped open in the middle of the Forbidden Forest. The wizarding world fell. Voldemort fell to Harry’s hand. To Longbottom’s. To Harry’s, again.

Draco emerged from Azkaban, a frail skeleton. He lived under house arrest in a small apartment in the outskirts of Muggle London, without even that loveless marriage or the little boy; just a string of empty one-night stands with black-haired, green-eyed men.

He lived happily ever after, with Harry.

He died. He died, he died, he died.

~*~

“How long has he been in there?” Harry asked.

Goyle was silent for a long moment. He was wearing a Disillusionment Charm today, which Harry found odd. Any professors happening along would be bound to sense his presence and call him out. “He just got here,” Goyle said, sullenly. “But he was here all night, too.”

“I don’t always see you guys up here with him, these days,” Harry commented.

Goyle cast off the Disillusionment Charm. His square-boned face was creased in an ugly scowl. “It’s none of your business, Potter.”

“I’m worried about him, too,” Harry said.

Goyle’s mouth dropped open in outrage. “You’re the one who gave him the bloody Time-Turner in the first place!”

“Oh,” Harry said. He could see why that might make it difficult for a bodyguard to do his job. In fact, with Draco constantly in two places at once, disappearing and reappearing at unexpected times… Yeah, Harry thought contritely, he could see how that might be a bit hellish. Not to mention, probably the reason for the Disillusionment Charm. If Crabbe and Goyle were having trouble keeping up with Draco, then keeping track of their Polyjuice counterparts would be surely near impossible. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realise,” he apologised. “I was just trying to help.”

Goyle’s lip curled. “Funny sort of help, giving him a Time-Turner. So he has twice as much time to work himself to death?”

Harry winced. “I promise you that wasn’t my intention. All I want is to protect him. If I had my way, I’d take him as far away from all of this as I could.”

Goyle grunted, looking unconvinced. “In my experience, ifs get you nowhere, Potter.”

“Yeah,” Harry sighed. Who knew he could have an intelligent conversation with one of Draco’s goons? “I do care for him, though.”

Goyle gave him a level stare. “You care for Draco,” he said, flatly, “and yet your relationship with him has put him directly in the Dark Lord’s crosshairs.”

Harry hesitated. He wasn’t sure how much Draco had told his friends about why he was letting Harry court him. It was altogether possible Goyle knew more than Harry did. On the other hand, Pansy was Draco’s best friend, and he hadn’t told her anything more than what they’d expected: that he was biding his time to find out Harry’s true motives, to figure out what he was going to do in response. Hopefully defect, but Harry wasn’t allowed to press for that anymore.

He had to wait for Draco to make his move, and then for Dumbledore to make his.

He understood Dumbledore’s reasons for waiting. He even understood why Dumbledore had kept it from him. It was all about the greater good; the needs of the many outweighing the one. But that just wasn’t enough for Harry anymore. He wanted Draco _safe_. Unfortunately, that meant playing by Dumbledore’s rules… at least for now.

“I’m going to take care of it,” he assured Goyle, and went to knock on the wall.

There was a long pause, and then the door was wrenched open.

“Harry,” Draco said, taking an aborted step forward. His eyes flickered to Goyle. He grabbed Harry’s hand, pulling him into the room. “Where in Salazar’s name have you _been_?”

“Sorry,” Harry said. He frowned. “You look exhausted. When did you last sleep?”

Draco shook his head. He was very pale, jittering, unable to meet Harry’s eyes. “It doesn’t matter. I’m fine.”

Harry felt desperation well up in his chest. “You’re not fine,” he said. “I could help. You know I could.”

Draco laughed. It sounded odd; strained, almost hysterical. “You have no idea what I know, Potter. Leave it, would you?”

Harry stared at him. He just knew he was about to blurt out something stupid, and ruin everything. “Draco,” he said, biting down on it, “will you fuck me?”

Draco stilled. “What?”

“I mean it,” Harry told him. “I want you to.”

Draco studied him for a long moment. “You don’t want to – what was it, tie me down, suck me ‘til I’m crying, begging? Ride me until I come, and then keep _on_ riding me...?”

Harry shivered. That fantasy, the one he’d used to talk Draco into orgasm, was something he’d thought about a lot. He’d had the idea that maybe he’d be able to work his way back into bottoming again a little quicker that way. But this might be their last time together, and he didn’t want to always wonder what it would have been like to have Draco inside him, making love to him. And somehow he knew it would be just that: an act of love. He knew Draco wouldn’t fuck him over the way Justin had. He’d make it good.

“I want that,” he said. “But not right now. Right now, I want you on me, holding me down. I want to feel your strength. I want you deep inside me, as far as you can go, until all I can feel –”

Draco covered his mouth with his own, cutting him off. Harry gasped and then moaned, and Draco kissed him until they were both breathless, hard and panting, rocking against each other with the kind of wild, desperate frotting that was not just want, but overwhelming, all-consuming _need_.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Draco said, breaths coming quick and harsh, chest heaving against Harry’s. “Your magic –”

“Won’t hurt you,” Harry said. “I’d never hurt you, you’re right about that. This, _us_ … We’re right together, Draco. Can’t you feel it? Our magic is right together. Take me?”

Draco’s gaze raked over him, and Harry thought feverishly that this was what a very small animal must feel under the eyes of a larger, more powerful predator. It was not something he’d ever experienced with Draco, and he kind of (very much) liked it.

“ _Yes_ ,” Draco hissed, taking handfuls of Harry’s robe and using a non-verbal spell to slice it down the front. Harry could feel the magic thrumming under his skin, and he shuddered helplessly as Draco claimed his throat with lips and teeth and tongue.

~*~

Draco had already cleared the space under and around their bed of Harry’s rose bushes (and some around the Vanishing Cabinet, but not too many, in case Harry became suspicious), and he had him laid out on the white sheets in moments.

He stripped Harry of his clothes with a simple spell, and then knelt admiring the view. Harry’s muscles bunched and flexed under his smooth, tanned skin, and a blush began to spread down from his face to his chest.

“Beautiful,” Draco said, and the blush deepened.

“Get on with it,” Harry said, impatiently. His cock was deliciously hard, bouncing a little against his stomach as he moved. Draco reached out and trailed a finger up the underside, enjoying the way Harry whimpered. Settling himself between Harry’s legs, he took Harry’s balls in his hand, rolling them gently as he bent his head and licked slowly at the hard erection already straining towards his mouth. This was familiar territory for them both, and he could feel Harry yielding to the pleasure of the moment, his hands settling gently on Draco’s head.

Conversely, Draco was more than a little tense at the thought of what was to come; what Harry was going to let him do. He found himself humping the bed, unable to restrain himself as he took Harry in deep, saliva gathering and pooling in his mouth as that familiar taste exploded across his tongue.

Harry moaned and thrust up, his hands tightening in Draco’s hair. Draco bobbed his head, letting Harry’s cock slide in further, relishing the taste and weight and thickness of him, stretching his mouth, making his jaw ache. He sucked, getting a rhythm going, deep-throating him the way he knew Harry loved, making him yell and dig his heels into the bed, fingers in Draco’s hair making little convulsive movements as he fought the urge to push Draco’s head down.

Draco pulled back, ignoring Harry’s whimper of protest. “Turn over.”

Harry blinked at him, emotions running riot over his face. Fear, anticipation, anxious need...

Draco soothed him with gentle strokes over his flanks and thighs. “Trust me?”

Harry’s face gentled, anxiety fading. “Yeah, okay.”

He turned over, and Draco settled him over a plump, soft pillow, legs spread wide. “You’re going to like this, I promise.”

He stroked his hands over Harry’s arse, kneading, and pulled the pert cheeks apart to see the twitching hole. And then he bent and swiped his tongue over it.

Harry gave a startled cry, jerking. He twisted to look over his shoulder. “ _Wha_ –”

Draco just smiled and bent his head again, gently circling the tight entrance with his tongue, teasing, filling his senses with the clean taste of skin, soap and water (Harry had _cleaned_ himself for this, planned it, Draco thought helplessly, heat rising in his belly) and underneath it all, the dark, musky taste of his lover. Draco laved and sucked messily at the tight hole, enjoying the way Harry squirmed, the noises coming out of his mouth now from deep within his chest; surprised yelps, low moans, the first rumblings of pleasure.

“D-Draco,” he stammered, “ _Please_ –”

Draco held Harry’s hips still, narrowing his tongue to a point and pushing in. Harry screamed, scrabbling at the bedclothes as Draco worked his arse, thrusting his tongue in and out; a promise of the fucking he was going to give Harry later.

Harry was making incoherent pleas, pushing back insistently, and Draco noticed his hand, heading for his cock. “Ah, ah,” Draco said, pinning his hand to the bed. “Let me.”

He slipped his fingers between Harry’s legs, stroking up his perineum and gently fingering his balls. Harry thrust his arse up with an involuntary moan, giving him the room he needed to pull Harry’s hard, leaking cock down between his legs, close his hand around it and pump slowly as he sucked hard at Harry’s swollen, red hole.

Harry wailed, writhing and jerking wildly; up into his mouth, down into his hand, his hole fluttering madly around Draco’s tongue. Draco jerked him off; rough, quick strokes that had Harry screaming and coming, spurting into the sheets.

Draco shook his wand into his hand, almost trembling in his eagerness. “ _Aperti lubrico_ ,” he murmured. He couldn’t resist the urge to slide a finger into Harry’s arse, feeling the heat and the slickness of the lube, thinking with a shiver that this was the first time he’d been allowed to use that spell on Harry.

Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the fucking Chosen One, and –

_His._

Heat flushed across his skin, and he slipped another finger up Harry’s arse, unable to look away from that gorgeous body stretched out under him, like a feast ready for the taking. _His_ taking. And Harry wasn’t showing the least inclination to regain control, to turn the tables as he usually did. He was comfortable, relaxed, almost boneless as he sprawled out in post-orgasmic bliss. It was _exhilarating_.

He used his wand to banish his robes. “All right, Harry?” he managed.

“Mm,” Harry said lazily, pushing his arse back into Draco’s hands. “You gonna fuck me or not?”

“Wild hippogriffs couldn’t drag me away,” Draco assured him, and Harry laughed. Draco frowned, and thrust in a little harder than he’d intended. Harry gasped, and Draco forced himself to still, stop. He bent over his lover, kissing Harry’s shoulder in apology and question.

“I’m okay,” Harry assured him, a little breathless. “Just, oh – Merlin, you feel so _big_. Have you always –?”

Draco smirked. He pulled out just slightly, rocking gently back in. Harry gasped, and rocked with him, the little noises coming out of his mouth so – so indescribably _beautiful_ that a lump formed in Draco’s throat. He stroked shaky hands over Harry’s back, down his sides, holding his hips and changing the angle of his thrusts, searching for Harry’s prostate.

Harry yelled when he found it, and it was such a sound of innocent surprise that Draco felt a flash of anger. Obviously Finch-Fletchley hadn’t bothered about Harry’s pleasure during their one night together. The night Harry had lost his _virginity_ , no less. “Don’t tell me you’ve never –”

“Of course… I have,” Harry panted. “I know… how to masturbate –”

Draco chuckled, relaxing, but then Harry was pushing up to his hands and knees, rocking back insistently.

“Harder!” he said. “H-harder, _please_ , please fuck me, Draco –”

Draco adjusted his thrusts for the new position, taking Harry’s hips in a bruising grip as he complied with his lover’s demand, making sure he hit Harry’s prostate with each plunge, powering forwards until Harry had to press his hands against the headboard to stop Draco from slamming his head into it.

Draco couldn’t keep his eyes open. The intensity of being inside him was too much, the pressure building, radiating out from his spine, balls drawing up...

“Draco,” Harry sobbed. “Oh Merlin, touch me, _touch me_ –”

He managed to find enough coordination to snake an arm around Harry’s waist and fumble a few awkward pulls to Harry’s cock. It wasn’t synchronised with his thrusts; he wasn’t even sure he was catching Harry’s prostate every time, now. He couldn’t focus, entirely lost in the tight heat surrounding him, the sweat trickling into his eyes, Harry’s sweet cries filling his ears. And then Harry’s arse started contracting around him, and Harry’s cock jerked in his hand, and he knew – he _knew_ his lover was coming. It sent him over the edge, a rush of heat and pleasure flooding his body, white light filling his vision, and what made it better, what made it better than any other orgasm of his _life_ , was that Harry was coming with him.

 _Because_ of him.

He rode the ebbing wave down slowly, unwilling to let go of the pleasure of the moment.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the nape of Harry’s neck. He let himself collapse off to one side, curling into Harry’s side.

Harry grunted, lifting an arm to flop over Draco’s waist. “That was incredible.”

Draco was already half-asleep; he’d been awake too long already, and the high of having Harry under him was wearing off fast. He was going to crash, and crash hard. “I told you I’d make you scream for me,” he mumbled.

“Cry, and beg, and scream, was what you said,” Harry teased.

“You begged,” Draco said, his voice sounding very far away to his ears. “I’ll work on making you cry, next time.”

~*~

Harry let Draco sleep for several hours after that. It broke his heart to wake him; he looked so innocent, blond lashes brushing his cheeks, his mouth softened in sleep, chest rising and falling gently with each breath. Fatigue was written into every line of his body, even in sleep. The ache to protect and shelter him from everyone outside their safe little haven was agonising.

He was too tired to focus when Harry woke him, almost falling off the bed and stumbling over to a lopsided dresser.

“What are you taking?” Harry asked quietly, as Draco grabbed a handful of vials from one of the drawers. He un-stoppered the vials one by one, swallowing what looked like an unhealthily large dose of each.

Draco blinked hazily at him, and Harry wondered if he even knew who he was talking to. “Girding Potion, Pepper Up, Wit-Sharpening Potion...” He took several more, and his whole body shuddered, sending him to his knees. His eyes were brighter when he looked up at Harry, and he visibly winced. “Ah. Potter.”

“What else?” Harry said.

“Just some Restorative potions,” Draco said dismissively, scrubbing his hands over his face.

“And Invigoration Draught,” Harry said, nodding at the vial with dregs of a bright blue potion. Invigoration Draught was one of the potions they’d studied in fifth year. It was a temporary fix, like coffee or Muggle energy drinks, but far more addictive. “Have you been taking it this whole time?”

“Only when the others can’t keep me awake,” Draco assured him.

Somehow that didn’t make Harry feel any better. “Come back to bed,” he said.

Draco raised an eyebrow. “You’re not going to scold me?”

“No,” Harry said. “Come here. I want to hold you.”

“It _astounds_ me how romantic you can be sometimes, Potter,” Draco said, raising his eyes heavenward. But he climbed back into bed without further complaint, and Harry gathered him close, nudging his nose under Draco’s jaw.

“I love you,” he murmured, pressing little kisses to the pale, vulnerable skin. Draco sighed, tilting his head back, and Harry buried his face in his lover’s neck, closing his eyes. “I wish you wouldn’t hurt yourself like this,” he whispered.

“You know I have no choice,” Draco replied.

Harry was silent. He felt like his heart was being wrenched in two. The truth was, he _had_ cried as Draco made love to him. He’d cried as Draco brought him to orgasm, knowing that this was the last time he’d be able to touch Draco, be touched by him. He’d made sure his eyes were clear and dry by the time Draco moved off him, though; he didn’t want to spoil their last time together.

He just couldn’t understand why this _hurt_ so much. They weren’t really courting. It was all just a dance, a game. Granted, a desperate one, with their very lives at stake, just like in the gladiator games of old… but that was all it was. He was playing a part. So why did it hurt _so damn much_?

“Draco,” he whispered.

“Mm?”

“We need to talk.” He lifted his head to meet Draco’s gaze. There was a suspiciously content look in those weary grey eyes that had Harry’s heart lurching in his chest all over again.

“You’re not trying to break up with me, are you?” Draco asked languidly, and Harry stared at him. Draco stared back. He half-sat up, the beginnings of shock and disbelief dawning in his eyes. “You’re joking, right? Harry –”

“It’s not –” Harry scrambled up, grabbing Draco’s hands. “Draco, I _love_ you. I love you so much I can’t even think straight sometimes. But I can’t do this anymore. I can’t put you in danger like this. First Cardosa, and then the other Slytherins… I know you think you have it all under control, but you’re _exhausted_. You can’t go on like this, and it’s all my fault –”

“Merlin’s balls, Potter, if the sun fell from the fucking sky you’d say it was _your bloody fault_ –”

“I’m serious!” Harry interrupted, sharply. “The Slytherins are suspicious. Voldemort is suspicious. Goyle was right, I’ve put you in his crosshairs –”

“You’ve been talking to _Goyle_ about me?” Draco snapped. “For fuck’s sake, Potter! You were the one who started this. _You_ pursued me –”

“And I was wrong! I’m sorry!”

“You’re sorry,” Draco echoed. His lip curled. “Dumbledore put you up to this, didn’t he?” Harry blinked at him in surprise, and Draco said, “I didn’t see you at all yesterday. It’s a reasonable assumption. Either that, or your friends have finally managed to convince you that you’ve lost your mind. But I doubt that. I haven’t once seen a look of disapproval on their faces; not even the Weasel’s. The same can’t be said for Dumbledore.”

Harry shook his head helplessly. “It doesn’t matter. He only told me what I already knew. I won’t put you in more danger than I already have, Draco. I _won’t_. I love you.”

“You love me, but you won’t stay with me,” Draco said. He was trying to sneer, but he looked on the verge of a panic attack; his eyes wide, his face stark white. “You’re rescinding your offer of protection –”

“No.” Harry straddled him, taking his face in his hands. Draco was stiff under him, and Harry pulled back reluctantly. “No, Draco, never. Never. I _promise_ , if you defect, I’ll be there. I’ll protect you, from both sides. And so will Dumbledore. He’s trustworthy. If you ever find yourself in a situation where – where you need to trust him, you can. I want you to remember that. I just can’t be with you, anymore.”

“You’re a _coward_ ,” Draco hissed, pulling away. He found his wand and flicked it, and suddenly he was fully dressed and smoothing down the wrinkles in his robes.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered, feeling utterly wretched. “I’m so sorry, Draco. I wouldn’t do this if I didn’t have to. Please believe me.”

Draco ignored him. He turned and left the room, and didn’t look back.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for your comments and kudos! Hopefully this chapter will make up a bit for the last one ;) Let me know what you think! xx

**CHAPTER TWELVE**

**THE PATH NOT TAKEN**

Part Two

A group of fifth-year girls sat under a cluster of crab apple trees on the east lawn, their textbooks studiously open on the ground before them. Not a single girl was looking at her book, however. They all had their heads together, giggling. Ginny sat slightly apart from them, doing her nails in an attempt to appear uninterested in the conversation.

“Terry Boot asked me,” Alexia said, in a hushed voice. She was a pretty girl with auburn curls and green eyes, and she held in her hands a coveted invitation to the sixth years’ end-of-year party. It had charms on it so that only those who had been invited could read it. “Can you believe it?”

Marianne sighed. “He is _so_ dreamy. You are, like, the luckiest girl _ever_ , Lexie.”

“Are you going with Blaise, Ginny?”

Ginny shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said, trying to sound casual. “He hasn’t asked me. I’m not even sure he’s going.”

“He’s probably not,” Belinda said. “It’s not like Slytherins are renowned for cooperation, and this party is supposed to be about cooperation and fostering inter-house relations. That’s what the invite says, right, Lexie?”

Ginny looked up from her nails, eyes sparking. “Blaise is _fully_ supportive of Harry and Malfoy.”

“Well, I for one think that’s damned odd,” Belinda said, matter-of-factly. “I’m sorry, Gin, but those two have taken the Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalry to new heights. If there was ever one constant at Hogwarts, it was the animosity between Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. And now one of Malfoy’s best friends is supporting his _relationship_ with the Chosen One? It’s weird.”

“On the other hand,” Marianne pointed out, “if it weren’t for them, there’d be no party. That’s what Parvarti said.”

“I think it’s great,” Alexia agreed. She winked. “I’m all for fostering inter-house relations, if you see what I mean.”

They all giggled.

“I don’t know,” said another voice. Ginny stiffened as Dean Thomas folded himself down onto the grass next to them. “I think there’s something to keeping it in one’s House, so to speak.”

They all darted cautious glances at Ginny. “Did you want something, Dean?” she asked.

“Oh yes,” he said, with that charmingly boyish grin that never failed to set Ginny’s heart a-flutter. “I’d like to ask you to the party. Will you go with me?”

She raised her eyebrows at him. “If I go with anyone, it’ll be Blaise. My _boyfriend_ , remember?”

He looked a little crestfallen, but rallied quickly. “He’s a rotten dancer, you know. Didn’t you see him at the Yule Ball? He was like a demented puppet with half its strings cut.”

Ginny suppressed a smile with an effort. Despite her mother’s best efforts, she seemed to have inherited more than a little of her father’s love of all things Muggle. She couldn’t help enjoying the odd references and expressions Dean came out with.

Dean grinned back at her, and grabbed her hand. Ginny let herself be swept her to her feet. “Now _me_ ,” he said, with absolutely no trace of modesty, “I’m a _great_ dancer.”

He began twirling her around her group of friends.

Ginny rolled her eyes. “And where, exactly, did _you_ learn to dance?”

“Summer after fourth year,” Dean said, and he looked a little embarrassed, now. “Mum got it into her head that ballroom dancing was a necessary addition to a gentleman’s repertoire. She took me every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon, and _insisted_ on learning the steps herself so she could help me practice at home.”

Ginny chuckled despite herself. “To her credit, you do dance well.”

“Why, thank you,” he said, giving her a quick bow in the middle of a complicated spin. “Will you come with me?”

“I’m dating Blaise, Dean. I can’t go to the party with you.”

He stopped twirling her, and smiled. “Okay,” he said, surprising her. “But just so you know, I won’t be going with anyone else, so if you save a dance for me, I’m all yours.”

She hesitated. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He grinned, bowed again, and walked away with a spring in his step. Ginny turned back to her friends.

“He is _way_ cuter than Blaise, you have to admit!” Marianne giggled.

“I don’t have to admit any such thing,” Ginny said. “Blaise is my boyfriend, not Dean. He lost his chance with me.”

“Really?” Alexia said, archly. “You were smiling when you were dancing with him.”

Ginny shrugged. “So? It was fun. He’s a good dancer.”

“You’re still smiling.”

Ginny scowled at her. “Oh, shut up.”

~*~

Hermione bit her lip, watching Harry shift uncomfortably on the infirmary bed. He looked miserable.

Malfoy was sitting on the other bed, giving him the cold shoulder. He had shot Dumbledore a freezing stare as he walked in, completely ignored Ron and Hermione, and now sat staring out of the window.

Madam Pomfrey seemed a little puzzled by his behaviour, but she took it in stride. “I’ve called you all here to discuss the readings I took on Wednesday. I’m afraid it has taken a good deal longer than I had anticipated to confirm the results.” She hesitated. “When I told you that pathways had formed between your cores, I was _technically_ correct. What I did not realise was that this is not a recent development. In fact, the connection is very old.”

“Old?” Malfoy turned an incredulous expression on her.

“Almost six years old,” Madam Pomfrey confirmed. “I believe it must have formed the moment you met.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Malfoy said, dismissively. “Unless you mean to imply that someone planned this, six years in advance?”

Hermione frowned. “You still think it’s a curse, then.”

“Well, it is a possibility,” Madam Pomfrey acknowledged. “And one which I can assure you I won’t rule out prematurely, Mr Malfoy. But if I were to make an educated guess, I would say that the pathways formed spontaneously, not as the result of outside interference. What’s more, I believe they connect you not only to each other, but to the Wild Magic itself.”

Malfoy opened his mouth, and then closed it again, slowly. He looked thoughtful, suddenly. Hermione eyed him suspiciously. Malfoy wasn’t one to yield that easily. Did he know something they didn’t?

“Poppy, such a bond is unheard of,” Dumbledore said.

“I know, Albus, believe me,” she said. “But I ran every test at least three times. I had Severus review the readings to make sure there were no errors, and Miss Granger has been very diligently checking all my findings against her research. I even had one of my trusted friends at St Mungo’s – Healer Ong, you know him –”

Dumbledore inclined his head.

“Healer Ong is very well respected among his peers,” Madam Pomfrey explained, for the rest of them. “He is considered one of the world’s leading experts on the Healing of magical pathways. He agrees with my assessment. There are both uni-directional and bi-directional pathways between your magical cores, the purpose of which I am afraid is as yet unclear. What _is_ clear is that some of those pathways are sending out tendrils to nothing. Or rather, everything.”

Harry frowned. “Uh…?”

Dumbledore stroked his beard. “I believe she means the Wild Magic, Harry,” he said. “Magic, you see, exists in all things. It is the very fabric of the universe, binding and connecting every living thing together. Wizards are fortunate enough to be born with a core of magic, which we can learn to tap into and use. But though we are creatures of magic, our only recourse for using the Wild Magic is through incantations and rituals. We ask permission, and the Wild Magic grants it to us as we fulfil its demands.”

“I believe these pathways may be acting in a similar fashion,” Madam Pomfrey said. “Reaching out to the magic in the elements around us; supplicants, requesting aid when you need it most. When your emotions are most desperate, most powerful.”

Harry frowned. “You’re saying we’re _using_ Wild Magic?”

“It certainly explains how you could have been performing Mage-level spells without any kind of training,” Hermione said. “If it’s responding to your emotions, helping you when it perceives you need it most.”

“Like when I want to make a bed out of some blankets?” Harry said, sceptically.

“Wild Magic doesn’t differentiate the way we do, Potter,” Malfoy said, and Hermione didn’t miss the way Harry turned to him hopefully, nor the way his shoulders slumped when Malfoy steadfastly avoided his gaze. “If you please it, you may ask almost anything within the laws of magic, and it will be granted to you. You just have to find the right incantations or rituals to ask.”

“He’s right, Harry,” Ron said. “If you wanted a bed badly enough –” he coughed suddenly and went bright red, “er, what I mean is, uh, anything is possible –”

“Within the laws of magic,” Malfoy repeated.

“Of course,” Madam Pomfrey said. “But clearly this _is_ within the laws of magic, Mr Malfoy, or it would not be happening. So far, Miss Granger and I have been unable to find any similar, historical cases, but we will keep trying. There is nothing new under the sun, as the saying goes. What is happening here has happened before. We just haven’t found it yet.”

“I have faith in you, Poppy,” Dumbledore said. “And in Miss Granger, of course,” he said, nodding at Hermione, who felt herself flush in embarrassed pleasure.

“There is one more thing,” Madam Pomfrey said.

Hermione frowned. She had been assisting the mediwitch where she could, so of course she’d already known about the correspondence with Healer Ong, and the conclusions they’d reached. There was nothing else. Was there?

“I only made the discovery this morning, so I have not been able to confer with anyone, but I _am_ sure. There is a darkness inside Mr Potter.”

Hermione stiffened. Ron sucked in a sharp breath beside her.

Harry stilled. “A darkness, ma’am?”

“I noticed it when I was inside your core,” Madam Pomfrey said, apologetically. “It evaded my attention, almost as if with a repelling charm, but it could not hide from the diagnostic potions. Even so, as I said, I did not even realise it was there until this morning. Something had been bothering me about your core, and I tried delving a little deeper this morning, forcing myself to look past whatever it was repelling my attention. And that’s when I saw it. It is not just a darkness, Mr Potter. It is a growth; a tumour on your soul and magic – malevolent, evil –”

“You’re wrong!” Ron blurted. “Harry is _not_ evil!”

“You must be mistaken, Madam Pomfrey,” Hermione agreed, reaching out to touch Harry’s arm in solidarity.

But Harry shook his head, looking resigned. “No. I felt the same thing. I just didn’t realise it at the time.”

“Harry,” Dumbledore said, and all eyes turned to him. “I believe what you felt was your connection to Voldemort.”

The room quietened; a small gasp from Madam Pomfrey was the only response.

Harry met the Headmaster’s eyes, and the world seemed to narrow to the two of them, mentor and student, until Hermione felt as if they could have been communicating a whole, silent conversation with their eyes. She noticed that Malfoy appeared to be as uncomfortable with this as she was. He’d turned towards Harry at last, eyes narrowed, jaw clenched, one hand checked in an aborted move to reach out to him.

Harry didn’t even notice.

“I told you once,” Dumbledore said, quietly, “that you had inherited certain traits from Voldemort, when he gave you that scar. They are part of you now, but just like when you chose Gryffindor over Slytherin, you _chose_ not to let his magic rule yours. And so you buried it in your core, guarding it from your own magic. I believe that when Voldemort dies, and thus your connection with him, so too will his magic inside you.”

Harry was silent for a long moment. “So I’ll lose everything he gave me? My ability to speak Parseltongue?”

“That I cannot say, my boy.”

Madam Pomfrey was frowning. “Albus –”

He stood unhurriedly, holding out an arm to her. “If you would be so good as to show me _exactly_ what you saw, my dear?”

He ushered her out of the room, leaving Harry, Ron, Hermione and Malfoy alone.

“You’re a fool, Potter,” Malfoy said, stiffly. “He’s lying to you. Holding something back. Manipulating you.”

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but Malfoy was already gone. Harry’s face crumpled, and he buried his head in his hands. Hermione’s heart broke for him.

~*~

Harry scuffed his shoes against the flagstones, hands shoved deep in his pockets as he walked. Ron and Hermione were keeping pace beside him, discussing Madam Pomfrey’s latest finding; thoroughly indignant on his behalf, but also, Harry couldn’t help but note, a little worried.

He’d tuned them out somewhere on the fourth floor.

Of course there was darkness inside him. It made sense. Why else would the Dursleys have treated him as they did, all those years? Clearly they’d seen something in him; the same thing Justin had. Something that wasn’t worthy of love, or care, or even decency. He was broken. Perhaps irreparably.

Breaking up with Draco had been the right thing to do, he decided. The Plan would never have worked. How could Draco trust someone so broken? So – so _wrong_ inside?

“We’re going to get to the bottom of this, Harry,” Hermione said, firmly.

He looked at her, startled. “What?”

“All of this,” she said. “Your magic, the darkness. Madam Pomfrey is working on it, and I’m going to help her. But right now, I think we need to focus on The Plan. There’s only a week until exams, and then it’s the end of term. Whatever Malfoy’s endgame is, it’s imminent now. There’s too much we don’t know yet; too much we’re not being told. We need answers.”

“Where do we start?” Ron asked, immediately.

Hermione gave him a grateful smile, eyes bright, and Harry sighed. He loved them both dearly, but they were very obviously still in the honeymoon phase of their relationship, and it was painful to watch. No matter how false his own relationship with Draco had been, he _missed_ him, with every beat of his heart.

“What does it matter?” he said, despondently. “Draco won’t even look at me.”

“So you’re just going to give up on him?” Hermione said. “That’s not like you, Harry.”

Harry bit his lip. She was right, of course. “No,” he conceded. “I’m not giving up.”

She nodded. “First things first, then. We need to know the _exact_ details of Dumbledore’s deal with Rita Skeeter, and whether she knows more about Malfoy’s task than she told him, or he told _us_. I suggest we send a letter to her. See what she has to say for herself. Then we focus on saving Malfoy.”

~*~

Draco closed his eyes, misery like a hard lump in his chest. Just a few short hours ago, he’d been so full of _hope_. The end was almost upon him, but it was sweet relief after the months of sleep deprivation and desperation and terror that clawed its way up his throat until it was all he could do not to scream and scream and scream.

He’d always known success was practically impossible. Ironically, he’d only held onto hope this long because of Harry. And now Harry had given up on him.

After what the Infinity Mirror had shown him, it was devastating.

He would take any path to save his mother, even at the cost of his own life. But her fate had not always been clear, in all of the paths. Nor had Pansy’s, or Harry’s. Very little had been clear, in fact. In some of the paths, he could have sworn Harry had died, but then had defeated the Dark Lord later on. It made no sense.

At least the decisions he had to make, very soon, had been obvious. Defect, or open the Vanishing Cabinet. Kill Dumbledore, or lower his wand. But the further down the path the Mirror had shown them, the further apart the flashes of the future had become, and the more difficult it had become to discern how he had ended up on that particular path.

And none of the paths had shown Harry breaking up with him. Which meant either the Mirror had withheld important moments, or the decisions made by _others_ had the potential to spawn new paths.

Or, of course, the whole Mirror was a lie.

But if it was true…

The only constant he could remember among the shifting branches had been Dumbledore. If he died, Draco’s future was ruined. Ironically, given the nature of Draco’s task, it seemed he had to live. Which meant Draco needed Harry’s help.

Stupid, self-sacrificing, heroic, _noble_ Harry, with his impossible hair and those pathetic green eyes. Harry, who had pursued him, held him, kissed him, loved him… and broken up with him. _Betrayed_ him; left him to deal with this alone, right when he needed him the most.

Draco dug his knuckles into his eyes, throat aching with unshed tears. He would not cry. He _would not_.

Instead, he gathered up his pages of notes and equations, staring at them blindly. And suddenly he saw the answer to the problem that had haunted his every waking moment for almost ten months. He stared at it. And then he rose to his feet, transfiguring a small footstool into a bird with a simple wave of his hand.

He didn’t even register that he wasn’t using his wand.

He called the bird to him with a whistle, and it lit upon his fingers with a tiny chirp. He smiled at it, and opened the Vanishing Cabinet. He didn’t speak the spell aloud. He didn’t need to. The words were glittering diamonds in his mind, arching from his fingertips, commanding the magic in the cabinet to do his will.

When he opened the door again, the bird was gone. He closed the door, and the second time he opened it (the passage from Borgin & Burkes to Hogwarts; the one that always, _always_ failed) he opened the door, and the bird flew out.

Draco watched it fly.

With shaking hands, he reached into the inside pocket of his robes, withdrawing the letter he’d written so long ago. He looked up again, searching for the bird. It sang sweetly from its resting place atop the bed Harry had made for him, and Draco watched it for a long moment.

Then, slowly, oh-so-slowly, he looked down at his hands.

If he destroyed the letter, and closed the cabinet, he would die. His _mother_ would die. If he sent it –

Magic dipped and played in the webs of his fingers, danced from his fingertips, trembled in the palm of his hand. He knew what he was, now; what destiny was always going to call upon him to be. Oh, his father had doubted, but Draco found he had always known. He had just been waiting for Harry bloody Potter.

Glancing at the bird again, he turned back to the Vanishing Cabinet. And he made his choice.

~*~

Draco skidded down a hallway, catching himself on a corner and flinging himself around it. He had minutes, maybe less, and he raced to follow the tug of magic that would lead him to Harry. He could feel it now; the connection that had always been there. All it had taken was acceptance of who he was. Who they were, together.

He could barely breathe, his lungs labouring under the exertion, but he flung himself around another corner, grimly determined. His choice was made. Harry or the Dark Lord: that was what it all boiled down to. And he chose to trust – not in the Chosen One, not in the famous Albus Dumbledore, not in the shadowy Order, but in Harry. _His_ Harry.

“HARRY!”

Up ahead, Harry was walking with his two best friends. They looked purposeful, heading towards the Owlery. At Draco’s shout, Harry whirled on his heel.

“They’re coming!” Draco said, breathlessly.

“Who’s coming?” Weasley demanded.

Draco didn’t look at him. “Death Eaters,” he told Harry. “I opened the door to them, through the Vanishing Cabinet.”

Weasley made a low, growling noise in his throat. Granger put a hand on his arm, restraining him.

“Why?” Harry said, and Draco knew he wasn’t asking _why did you let them in?_ , but _why tell me_?

“I had to,” he said, simply.

Harry examined Draco’s face silently. Then his own expression lightened. “You’ll stand with us?”

Draco nodded. Every instinct he had was screaming at him to keep running, to let others deal with the consequences of his choice. But the thought of Harry lying dead at the hands of one of the Dark Lord’s lieutenants – his mad Aunt Bella, perhaps –

 _No_. The Mirror had shown him that his fate was entwined with Harry’s, but it had also shown him that there were so many, many ways it could go wrong. So many of his choices had led to horrific outcomes. He had to get it right.

“Good,” Harry said. Suddenly his shoulders were squared, his face grim, like a general on the eve of battle. That aura of power Draco had always sensed settled on him like a mantle, and Draco felt fear crawl up his throat.

It was time.

“Ron,” Harry said, “find as many people who will fight as you can. And grab my Felix Felicis from my trunk. Make sure everyone gets some. Hermione, find Dumbledore.”

They nodded and disappeared without a word.

Harry turned to Draco, catching his hand. His eyes were shining with so much emotion that Draco felt his breath leave him. “ _Run_.”

He ran, with Harry by his side. Somehow they were faster together, as if there was a wind at their backs, propelling them on. They took a corner and ran straight into Draco’s friends. He skidded to a stop, jerking Harry off-balance. Harry stumbled, and Draco steadied him instinctively.

The Slytherins stared at them. Daphne’s eyebrow rose.

“I’ve defected,” Draco said, bluntly. “But the Death Eaters are coming. Will you fight with us?”

Pansy didn’t hesitate; she moved to his side. Crabbe and Goyle just stared, confusion writ plainly on their faces.

Daphne sucked in a sharp breath. “You’re insane! The Dark Lord –”

“The Dark Lord is insane,” Pansy interrupted. “He forces proud purebloods to serve at his feet; forces us to bow and scrape and accept punishment as if we were children, or simple-minded fools. He killed my _mother_ , and then accepted me into his ranks. How could I ever respect that kind of stupidity?”

Daphne looked at Blaise and Millicent.

Blaise shrugged. “I am a Slytherin and a Zabini. Whichever way the cards fall, my mother and I will rise triumphant from the ashes of the other side. Can you say the same?”

Her eyes narrowed.

Harry began to fidget, and Draco said sharply, “We have to go.”

Pansy nodded, and they left the others behind, still arguing. Draco couldn’t help wondering just how many other Slytherins he would be leaving behind. How many would become his enemies.

And then he forgot everything but the heat and terror of battle.

Pansy went through the door first. Draco pointed her towards the Vanishing Cabinet, and his breath froze in his throat when he saw the door was already open. A gaping maw of darkness filled the inside, and out of that darkness a claw emerged, curling around the door. Pansy gave a short scream, stumbling backwards.

Draco grabbed her arm. “Your wand,” he said, squeezing too tightly. She winced and tore her eyes from the claw, blinking at Draco. “ _Wand_ ,” he repeated, urgently.

She nodded, and her wand dropped into her hand. She gripped it firmly, raising it to chin level.

Satisfied, Draco spun to Harry. “No wands,” he said. Harry looked at him like he was crazy. “We’re stronger together,” Draco told him. “We don’t need wands. _Trust me_.”

And then the Death Eaters were on them.

~*~

_Draco had no wand._

Harry cursed up a blue streak inwardly even as Greyback charged. He cast _Stupefy_. Two blood-red spells streaked through the air towards the werewolf. Pansy had cast, too. The spells bounced off Greyback’s shield. He opened his mouth in a snarl, leaping straight at them. And Draco still had no wand.

Harry shot an _Immobulus_ at the werewolf. It missed, ricocheting off a mirror. Harry ducked and rolled. Greyback landed with the grace of a predator and pivoted, jaw opening wide. Harry cursed again. “Draco!”

“Fine!” Draco called. He raised his arms. A shield Harry had never seen before shot up around the wolf. The floor; flagstones warping and twisting up into a wall to protect them – as if the ground itself had answered Draco’s call.

Greyback crashed into it. He sprang back, growling.

Harry could hear him prowling along the wall, looking for a way through. He whirled back to the cabinet. Pansy was battling Rowle, a wizard almost twice her size. He was pushing her back, away from the door. An ugly black spell whizzed towards her like a shuriken, and she ducked. Harry gasped as it _turned_ , heading back towards her.

“Pansy!” he yelled, but she was already spinning on her heel, shouting the counter-curse. The black mass dissipated, but Rowle took advantage of her distraction to hurl another curse at her. “ _Protego_!” Harry cried.

Draco thrust out his hands. Suddenly Rowle was moving in slow motion, his face twisting in rage as he tried to understand what had happened to him. His curse hit Harry’s shield, and bounced back, hitting him square in the groin. The howl that emerged from that slowly-opening mouth was inhuman.

Fenrir Greyback burst through the wall, transformed into a full wolf. He charged towards Harry.

Draco’s cry was fierce. A thousand tiny thorns detached themselves from the rose bushes and flew at Greyback from all directions. They embedded in his face, his neck, his flanks. Greyback roared in pain, skidding as he twisted and snapped at them ineffectually, momentum gone.

Harry danced out of the way, casting _Stupefy_. It missed Greyback, who crashed into a large dresser, toppling it. But it grazed the arm of another Death Eater climbing out of the cabinet. Yaxley. He fell.

But behind him came Bellatrix Lestrange. She stepped on him as she climbed out of the cabinet, and rage welled up in Harry’s chest. He cast another _Stupefy_ instinctively, but his spell bounced off her shield.

“Pansy!” Draco yelled, sounding panicked.

Harry realised she’d been cut off from them. She darted around behind a huge mountain of furniture, and disappeared.

Bellatrix paused, taking in the scene with her dark, mad eyes: Rowle curled up on the floor, wailing, Greyback writhing and biting at his own flesh. She looked at Harry and Draco. “Nephew,” she crooned, smiling. “The Dark Lord is _very_ pleased with you. It’s time. Give him to us.”

“Draco’s with me,” Harry said, sharply.

She just laughed, and a chill shivered down Harry’s spine. “Draco is a _good_ little Death Eater,” Bellatrix said, still in that sickly-sweet baby voice. “Aren’t you, Drakey-boy?”

Harry saw Draco stiffen. “It’s Draco, Aunt Bella.”

Bellatrix cackled and gave a careless flick of her wand. Ropes shot towards Harry. He cut them into ribbons with a non-verbal _Diffindo_ , hatred boiling in the pit of his stomach. She deserved to die, just like Sirius had. She didn’t deserve to be standing there, laughing, claiming Draco as one of hers, claiming _Hogwarts_...

But it was Draco who had let the Death Eaters in, not Bellatrix. And Draco was _his_.

A short, lumpy man and a stocky woman emerged from the cabinet behind her. They looked like siblings, maybe even twins, right down to the ugly sneers on their faces.

“What’s going on here?” the man demanded. “Malfoy, give us Potter or get out of the way. You’ve got a job to do, remember?”

“I remember,” Draco said, evenly. He caught Harry’s eye, nodding slightly towards the nearest mountain of forgotten treasures.

Harry glanced quickly in that direction. Pansy was crouched behind an old chest of drawers, waiting for them. He reached out and took Draco’s hand. Draco turned his over discreetly, and Harry felt a rough, soot-like powder leaking through his fingers. He tried not to let his eyes widen in surprise.

Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder. Of course. The WWW package from their first date in Hogsmeade. Harry had almost forgotten about it.

Bellatrix was beginning to circle them. She wasn’t even trying to shoot at them. Not yet. She was _smiling_. Waiting. For Draco to hand Harry over? Surely they didn’t really think he would?

The stocky siblings were helping Rowle and Yaxley to their feet. Behind them, a final Death Eater was climbing out of the cabinet, wand clenched between his teeth. Greyback changed back into his human form; a tall figure with matted grey hair and filthy, clawed hands, one of which grasped his wand awkwardly as he removed the thorns. His teeth were bared in a dangerous snarl. His yellow eyes never left Draco.

“Use my magic to shield us,” Draco whispered, urgently. “We’re outnumbered and outmatched. You can do it. Madam Pomfrey was right, you _are_ drawing magic from me. The rose bushes, remember?”

Harry breathed in.

They had seconds, if that. His _Protego Totalum_ was powerful. It would buy them some time. And Pansy and Draco were formidable allies. But Draco was right. This room was a death trap. Bellatrix was already moving to flank them. There was no room to manoeuvre. No way to turn tail and run without being shot down.

If their shared magic could cause earthquakes and Apparate them through Anti-Apparition wards –

He breathed out, and slid his wand into his pocket.

“NOW!” Bellatrix screamed in triumph.

Draco threw down the powder. The room went pitch black. Harry slashed his other hand down. He _felt_ it when the air itself responded to him. A ward rose up in front of them; a thick sheet of air currents that flowed and shifted at the slightest touch of his thoughts. They dove for the mountain where Pansy waited.

The Death Eaters started screaming out lighting spells. “ _Lumos! Campana ignis! Paucis lumos! Incendio!_ ” Nothing penetrated the darkness. Instead they began taking random shots. “ _Crucio! Avada Kedavra!”_

“Not the Killing Curse, you idiots!” Bellatrix screamed. “You’ll hit the Potter boy!”

Harry pressed his shoulder to Draco’s. The Death Eaters were blind, but so were they. “Okay?” he demanded, baffled and breathless. “Draco, are you okay? I didn’t hurt you?”

Draco ignored him, digging in his robes for something. He drew it out: a tiny, shrivelled old hand, shining brightly. He enlarged it, filling the whole room with light. Harry blinked at the sudden brightness.

The Death Eaters yelled, running forward. Rowle slammed into Harry’s ward, and went flying backwards.

“Come on!” Draco said.

They ran towards the door. Harry glanced over his shoulder once, and almost stumbled. Magic was very rarely affected by the physical elements. Spells shot straight and true no matter what the conditions; wind, rain, even fire. But every spell the Death Eaters hurled at this ward was swallowed up; either rushing up and away as the air converged at the nearest mountain of forgotten treasures, or deflected away by horizontal air flows, or spinning in frenzied eddies that sent the spells shooting back at their casters.

They slammed the door shut on roars of pain and fury.

“What in the seven hells was _that_ , Potter?” Pansy gasped. “That wasn’t a shield!”

“I know,” Harry said, staring at the door. Wards were made of multiple layers of protective enchantments. No one could do that without a wand. But a ward made out of… air? That was _impossible_. “But whatever it was, I don’t think anything will hold back seven Death Eaters for long.”

“Six Death Eaters,” Draco corrected him, “and one werewolf.” He looked sick. “He wasn’t supposed to be here, Harry. I swear I didn’t know he was coming. I didn’t know.”

“Hey,” Harry said. He cupped the back of Draco’s neck, leaning forward to rest their foreheads together. “I know,” he said. He could feel himself calming, just touching Draco. “I love you so much. Thank you.”

Draco laughed incredulously; a thin, cracked sound. “ _Thank_ –?”

“You could have made a very different decision tonight,” Harry told him. “I know it would have been easier. I think you’re amazing.”

“Amaz –”

“Amazing,” Harry said, firmly. “You stood and fought. You were _more_ than courageous. And now,” as the door exploded outward in a shower of wooden shards, and he whirled to put himself between it and Draco and Pansy, “we do it all again.”


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for your comments and kudos! xx

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

**THE DEPTHS OF HIS BETRAYAL**

_O my child, who wronged you first, and began_  
 _First the dance of death that you dance so well?_  
 _Soul for soul: and I think the soul_  
~ Arthur Symons

Part One

Hogwarts had been laid open to attack. The safest place in the wizarding world; a school with hundreds of kids, protected by Albus Dumbledore himself.

Betrayed by Draco Malfoy.

 _Colour me un-fucking-surprised_ , Ron thought grimly. The Malfoys had always flirted too close to that line between the Dark and evil, pulling back only just in time to avoid public disgrace and a sentence to Azkaban. In fact, Ron suspected the only reason no Malfoy before Lucius had ever set foot in Azkaban was their vast fortune and unscrupulous penchant for bribing Ministry officials.

But now, with Lucius firmly on the wrong side of that line his ancestors had always managed not to cross, it was perhaps inevitable his own son and heir would take it that one step further.

Giving Death Eaters a way into _Hogwarts_. And then turning right around and confessing to Harry, promising to stand _with_ them against Voldemort. It had occurred to Ron too late that it could be a double-feint. He’d let Harry to go off with Malfoy alone, to face Merlin knew how many of Malfoy’s cronies.

Harry could be dead already, or captured and on his way to Voldemort.

Fear and urgency made it impossible for him to do more than a cursory sweep of the sixth and seventh floor. They were fortunate that it was such a sunny day. The vast majority of students were outside, studying. Any younger students in the halls, he put Notice-Me-Not charms on before sending them outside.

He found Ginny coming out of a bathroom, and Neville and Seamus playing Exploding Snap in the Gryffindor common room, taking a ‘study break’. The rest of Gryffindor was empty. He even called up the stairs to the girls’ dorms, but there was no answer. The only other DA member he found was Luna, wandering down a hallway with a Pygmy Puff sitting on her shoulder, chattering away to it happily.

“Death Eaters invading Hogwarts,” Ron said, with no preamble. “Will you fight?”

“Of course,” she said simply, and set the Pygmy Puff down on the ground. “Run free,” she told it, then turned to him with wide, inquiring eyes. “What now?”

Ron set his jaw. They didn’t have time to find anyone else. It had to be enough. He fished in his pocket for the Felix Felicis, and held it up. “One small sip each,” he warned. “There has to be enough to go around.” They all took a sip, and Ron was relieved to see that there was still a fair amount left. He had to make sure Hermione got some. “Come on,” he said.

They followed him with wands out.

Not far from the Room of Requirement, they came across the sound of voices. Ron held up a hand, and Neville almost tripped over his feet trying to stop in time. Luna steadied him.

“Thanks,” Neville whispered, blushing.

Ron peered around the corner.

There were two groups, halfway down the hallway. Students in Slytherin robes, with their backs to him, and facing them, Tonks, Lupin, and Ron’s brother, Bill.

Ron stared. The last time he’d spoken to his mother, Bill had been in France on business.

Their wands were all out. Not quite pointed at each other, but close.

“Am I to take it you are _all_ choosing to defect?” Professor Lupin said. “Even though you – Goyle, Crabbe, Nott – your fathers are all in the inner circle? Miss Greengrass, I’ve heard reports that your parents have pledged their loyalty to You-Know-Who again. And Miss Bulstrode, wasn’t your cousin killed by an Order member in the last war?”

“Not just any Order member,” Millicent Bulstrode said. “Arthur Weasley.” There was a short, tense silence, and Ron’s hand flexed around his wand. “I don’t remember my cousin,” she continued. “But I know he made some poor decisions. I don’t intend to make the same mistakes.”

“I think we all feel the same,” Greengrass said. “More to the point, we won’t let our friends cross that line without us.”

Ron gestured for the others to follow him.

Bill, Lupin and Tonks looked up as they approached, and the Slytherins turned almost as one, putting their backs to the wall as they were hemmed in by two groups.

“Hey, Bill,” Ron greeted. “Not that I’m not glad you’re here, but why _are_ you here?”

“Order business,” Bill said, giving him a smile, and Ginny a quick, one-armed hug. His wand remained at half-cock. “You only just caught us. We were heading back to the Ministry when we ran into this lot.” He nodded at the Slytherins. “Can we trust them?”

Ginny moved to Zabini’s side. “You can,” she said.

Zabini wasn’t stupid enough to put an arm around her, but Bill still frowned, looking between them.

“You don’t have a choice, Weasley,” Nott said. “We _will_ fight.”

“Yeah, but on which side?” Ron demanded.

“We’ll stand by Draco,” Goyle said, and Crabbe grunted his agreement.

Lupin and Bill exchanged a look. “All right,” Bill said, making his decision. “That’s good enough for me. Let’s go.”

“Wait,” Ron said. He held the Felix Felicis out to his brother. “Felix Felicis. Give everyone a sip first.” He cast a distrustful glare at the Slytherins, but if their defection was sincere, it would be practically criminal not to offer them some Liquid Luck. “Hermione’s gone to get Dumbledore. Leave some for her, if you can. The rest of you catch up. Guys, with me.”

Neville, Luna and Seamus followed him, and Ron couldn’t help wondering as they ran: if the Slytherins were all standing by Draco Malfoy, whose side was Malfoy on, really?

~*~

The hallway was thick with spells, the distinctive odour of scorched wood pungent and choking. Draco panted, throwing up shield after shield. Pansy was sheltering behind a sturdy little chest further down the hall. She’d been hit by a Leg-Breaker Curse. Harry was countering anything his shields couldn’t, but they were on the defensive.

They needed help. They needed a minute to _breathe_.

“Harry, shield!” he yelled. Harry obeyed without hesitation. Draco aimed at the ceiling. “ _Expulso_!”

The ceiling collapsed. Draco dragged Harry down with him, behind a portion of fallen wall.

“Thanks!” Harry gasped.

Draco pressed his hand against the broken stone, _willing_ it to stand firm against their attackers. He didn’t know if it would work. He could feel the Wild Magic at his fingertips, but he had no idea how to use it. No idea what it would let him do.

Harry aimed his wand over the wall blindly, mouthing a broad-range _Impedimenta_. Rowle snarled a _Finite_. A flash of red indicated someone’s attempt at shooting the wand out of Harry’s hand. Or perhaps at taking his hand off. Draco knew a few nasty severing spells with that distinctive red light.

He jerked Harry’s hand down.

He waited a beat, then peered around the wall. A bright purple spell flashed towards him. He jerked back. The spell hit the wall. Nothing happened. Bellatrix screamed in fury. “ _Fuck_ ,” Draco said. “They’re closing.” None of the Death Eaters had been caught by the ceiling collapse.

“I’ll shield,” Harry offered.

Draco nodded. He took Alecto out with a well-aimed Incontinence Curse. She yelped and crossed her legs, eyes widening in horror as urine soaked her robes. Draco tripped her with simple jinx.

Amycus yelled in fury, rushing forward. There was a blood-curdling scream. He fell, still screaming. Bellatrix had hit him from behind with the Cruciatus Curse. She crowed, apparently unconcerned with the fact that she was torturing one of her own.

“ _Discutio_!” Yaxley roared.

Draco didn’t have time to move. Harry shoved him to the ground, covering him. The wall exploded.

Swearing, Draco tried to turn over, but Harry was dead weight on top of him. “Harry? _Harry_!”

He didn’t move.

Draco pushed his way out from under him, scrambling to find his injury. A spell whizzed past his ear. He ducked, cursing, then threw up the strongest _Protego_ he could manage. Two spells ricocheted off it. Another took it down. He flung himself to one side, rolling. “Harry!” he yelled, panicking now.

Rowle and Yaxley were coming at him from either side. Greyback had almost bitten his way out of the snare Pansy had conjured. Gibbon had disappeared.

Draco was sweating, hair falling into his eyes. He cast a Perception-Altering Charm at Rowle, so that the man’s spells went wild, then dodged a determined _Incarcerous_ from Yaxley. As he came up, Bellatrix hit him with a well-aimed _Engorgio_. His hand and arm swelled to ghastly proportions. He couldn’t hold onto his wand. The weight of his arm pulled him off-balance.

“ _Protego Totalum_!” Pansy shouted. A shield formed in front of him. A nasty curse with a black trail sizzled out against it. “ _Reducio_!” she cried, limping towards him. His arm began to deflate itself to its normal size. Too slow, _too slow_. Bombarded by a ferocious attack by Bellatrix, Pansy’s shield fell.

Draco threw himself onto his stomach. Four spells shot over his head, from the opposite direction.

They hit his aunt head-on. A Sneezing Hex distracted her, _Petrificus Totalus_ froze her in place, _Expelliarmus_ disarmed her and threw her body backwards, and an _Incarcerous_ bound her where she lay.

Draco rolled, spinning up onto his knees.

Weasley, Finnigan, Longbottom and Luna Lovegood were running towards them. Weasley gave him a fierce grin. They began returning the Death Eaters’ attack in earnest. Pansy gasped and faltered a little, in relief. Finnigan ran to defend her.

Draco flung himself back down behind the meagre protection of the shattered wall.

“Harry!” he said, desperately. He ran his hands over Harry’s back, and sucked in a breath when he found a sharp piece of rock embedded just beside Harry’s spine. There was blood everywhere. “Oh Merlin, Harry. _Harry_. Wake up. Please.”

He looked around in desperation. Their reinforcements were already struggling. Weasley and Longbottom were barely fending off an enraged Greyback. Lovegood was screaming under Bella’s wand. The only ones holding their own were Finnigan and Pansy, dancing circles around Rowle and Yaxley.

But Alecto had managed to find her feet again. She was lifting the Cruciatus Curse on her brother.

Draco cast _Finite_ at Lovegood. Bellatrix stepped forward when she saw her relax. Draco shot off a Sleeping Curse. It came at his aunt from the wrong angle, but the pink trail grazed her shoulder. She stumbled, eyes closing.

Draco spun back to Harry, already casting a spell that would keep Harry’s neck and spine rigidly in alignment. He’d seen his father use it once, when his mother had tripped down the stairs, and they’d feared a broken neck. He gathered Harry up into his arms, using a Featherweight Charm. He was frighteningly still. Taking care not to jostle his precious cargo, Draco conjured the strongest shield around them that he could manage, and then stood and paced a tight circle in front of the wall.

 _I need somewhere safe,_ he thought desperately. _Somewhere to keep him alive_.

“ _Flagrante_!” Amycus yelled.

Draco smiled inwardly. Amycus Carrow couldn’t cast a _Lumos_ non-verbally if he tried. His shield reached out and snapped the curse up.

A door appeared in the wall. Draco slipped through it quickly, closing and barring it behind him. It was a tiny room, minimally appointed, but warm and clean, and there were stasis charms on the small infirmary bed. He settled Harry down on his stomach as gently as possible, and activated the charms.

Then he moved back to the door, bracing himself again for the fight.

~*~

Hermione ran. Her lungs burned, her legs threatening to give out under her.

Dumbledore had not wasted any time on preliminaries. She’d met him coming down from his office, and as soon as she gasped out that Death Eaters might be breaching the castle at any moment, might already be _here_ – he’d sent her to find Snape. She got the feeling he already knew what was going on, somehow, so she didn’t stop to ask questions. She just ran.

When she found Snape, in the small storage space above the DADA classroom, he _Stupefied_ her.

The terror she’d felt upon waking was indescribable. Harry had been right, all along. Snape was a traitor. He was going to join the Death Eaters, and no one would think to watch their back against him, a man Dumbledore _trusted_. People were going to _die_. If it was Harry, or _Ron_ – oh Merlin, she would never forgive herself, _never_ , it was all her fault – she’d _failed_ –

One moment she was running through an empty hallway. The next, she rounded a corner onto a scene of chaos.

She back-pedalled instantly, raising her wand.

Almost directly in front of her, Tonks – hair an angry, fiery red – was hanging onto a huge werewolf, arms around its throat as she struggled to restrain it. Bill Weasley was lying on the floor not far away, his face and hair a mess of blood. McGonagall, in her tartan dressing gown with her hair loose about her shoulders, stood over his body, defending him from further attack.

There were screams, shouts of effort and anger, the concussions of explosions.

Snape was nowhere in sight. The Death Eaters were outnumbered, and losing ground. Hermione’s panic abated somewhat, but she had to find Ron, Harry –

A female Death Eater was hanging in the air by her foot, held there by Luna’s wand. One of Ginny’s Bat-Bogey Hexes was flapping around her face, and a flick of Blaise Zabini’s wand had ropes twining around her body. A swift _Expelliarmus_ from Ginny disarmed her.

“Snap her wand!” Hermione called.

Ginny glanced at her and nodded. Hermione ran on.

There was another Death Eater bound and unconscious in an alcove, shimmering shields guarding the entrance. Yaxley was fighting his way towards it. Malfoy, Nott and Professor Lupin were standing in his way.

Hermione blinked. Why was Professor Lupin here? For that matter, why were Bill and Tonks here?

She didn’t stop to ask. Daphne Greengrass was down, her back twisted oddly, and Neville too, blood spreading out on the floor from a wound to his head. Hermione forced herself to pause, to cast a blood-clotting spell. She was afraid it was already too late for Daphne.

Down a side hallway, Flitwick was engaged in a battle with Bellatrix Lestrange. The spells were flying so thick and fast that Hermione couldn’t even make them out. But – _there_! Her heart sped up. There was Ron’s tall, strong figure, at last, locked in battle further down the hall with a huge, mean-looking Death Eater. He was limping a bit, but he was holding his own.

Harry wasn’t with him.

She ran toward him anyway. A curse flew at her, and she jerked sideways. A hand caught hers. Hermione gasped, the world spinning. A bright green curse flashed by, narrowly missing her arm.

“Merlin!” she gasped, looking up into Millicent Bulstrode’s face. “Oh! Thank you!”

“You’re welcome,” Millicent said, her dark eyes wild and fierce. Like some kind of avenging angel, Hermione thought. “Now let’s help your boyfriend, shall we?”

~*~

“ _Immobulus!_ ” Draco shouted, bringing his wand around and down in a deceptive arch. _Duco_ , he thought.

Yaxley deflected the _Immobulus_ and Theo’s _Stupefy_ with a simple shield, but Draco’s non-verbal confusion spell got through. Yaxley blinked, staggering a little. Professor Lupin cast a spell that threw him off his feet. Draco froze him with _Petrificus Totalus_.

“Can you get him to the alcove?” he asked.

“Leave that to me,” Lupin agreed.

Draco spun on his heel. He’d sent Pansy, Vince and Greg off to find Gibbon. He couldn’t afford to let any of them escape. It was possible that Gibbon had already alerted the Dark Lord to Draco’s betrayal, but if he hadn’t…

An _Incendio_ singed his hair. He flinched. Granger had deflected it for him. “Look out!” she cried, eyes on someone behind him.

Draco threw himself sideways. Two spells missed him by a hair’s breadth. But Granger was in the line of fire. Draco twisted.

Rowle was taking aim at her. “ _Avada Ked_ –”

“NO!” Weasley howled. Too far away to help.

Draco jerked his wand up. Granger flew into the air, just as Millicent plowed into Rowle from the side. The spell went wild. It passed just under Granger’s foot, heading for a doorway. Draco’s eyes flashed to the man entering through it, black robes billowing behind him. “SEV –!”

Snape jerked to the side. It missed him by the merest fraction of an inch.

“ _Malfoy!_ ” Granger shouted. _“_ Put me down! I’m a sitting duck!”

Draco had no idea what a sitting duck was, but he lowered her quickly. A glance over his shoulder showed Millicent had Rowle well under control. She was sitting on his chest, wand pointed at his nose, teeth bared in a smile that would have had even the Dark Lord quailing. He turned back to Granger, relaxing. “I had you shielded.”

Weasley reached them at that moment, catching her up in his arms. “Merlin, Merlin!” he babbled tearfully. “ _Thank_ you,” he said, meeting his eyes over Granger’s mass of bushy hair.

“I owed her a life-debt,” Draco said, simply.

Granger disentangled herself from Weasley, stepping towards Draco. “No more debts,” she said, hand outstretched. “Friends?”

Draco looked at it, remembering how Weasley had stopped Harry from accepting his hand of friendship, so long ago. Then he looked at the ginger menace. He nodded, his blue eyes grave. _All right, then_. “Friends,” Draco agreed, and took her hand. As soon as he began to withdraw it, Weasley grasped it in his.

Draco stilled.

“Friends,” Weasley said firmly, and pumped his hand once, up and down.

Draco gaped at him.

“Good,” Granger said, briskly. “Now, where’s Harry?”

“Safe,” Draco said, gathering the tattered remains of his composure with some difficulty. _Salazar’s beard._ “For now. But he needs Madam Pomfrey, as soon as possible. As do others. Daphne –”

“Bill,” Weasley interjected grimly. “Neville.”

“And you,” Granger said, with a worried look at the deep, sluggishly-bleeding gash across her boyfriend’s left thigh.

“You go get her,” Weasley decided. “You shouldn’t be fighting. There wasn’t enough Felix Felicis for you.” He looked anxious. “Actually, maybe I should come with you, just in case.”

“No,” Granger said. “You’re needed here. I’ll be fine.” She kissed him quickly. “Be careful.”

Draco didn’t watch her go. Millicent was already levitating Rowle down the hallway, towards the alcove. He followed with Weasley, whose limp grew more pronounced with each step. “All right?” he asked.

“Fine,” Weasley grunted. “Could’ve been worse. Pretty sure it was meant for my femoral artery. I’ll have a go healing it in a minute. Got to get Rowle and Yaxley secured first.”

Draco nodded.

Lupin was standing guard over an unconscious Yaxley. “I couldn’t break your ward,” he said to Draco. There was reluctant admiration and more than a hint of suspicion in his tone. “It’s powerful, Malfoy.”

Draco shrugged. “It’s not Dark magic, if that’s what you’re afraid of.” He paused. “Well, not all of it.”

Lupin frowned, but Rowle was beginning to stir. Inside the alcove, Carrow had thrown off the ropes that bound him. He was watching them, eyes glinting maliciously. His wand was in Draco’s pocket, but most Death Eaters knew at least some wandless spells. Even the Carrows.

“Be ready,” Draco warned. There was no time to weave a ward on a different alcove. They had to help the others.

“We should just kill them,” Millicent said, darkly.

Draco shook his head. “We’ve defected, Millie. Remember?”

“Right.” She pouted slightly. “Not even a little Firestorm spell? _Confringo_? The Starfire Curse?”

Draco sighed. “Restrain your pyromania, please. Only Ministry-approved spells for now. And for Salazar’s sake don’t hurt them. We must have clean hands when the Aurors arrive.”

“One of them is already here,” Lupin said, impatiently. He jerked his head down the hall, where Tonks was slumped against a wall, cradling her arm. Just feet away, Greyback was trapped in a silver cage, snapping at the bars. McGonagall was holding the spell, but only just.

Draco nodded. “Go help,” he told Millicent. He made swift work of each layer; a twist of magic here, the unravelling of a knot there. And then, with an “ _Aperio_ ,” the ward fell.

Three spells shot towards Carrow.

“ _Depopulo_!” Carrow shouted.

Draco’s magic rose to protect him. Everyone else crumpled instantly.

“ _Langlock_!” Draco cried.

Carrow retaliated with a wandless Leg-Locker Curse. Draco danced out of the way, just as his own spell hit. Carrow’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He worked his mouth, furious.

Draco sneered, fear sharpening his tongue. “Is that it? The best you can do? How long did you practice that spell without a wand before you got it right? Years? Decades? Can you perform _any_ non-verbal magic without a wand? No? Not even a Summoning spell? _P_ _itiful_ –”

Amycus lunged forward, but Draco halted him with a simple _Impedimenta_. He smiled grimly. “Stay.” Amycus roared at him silently, fighting the spell. Draco stabbed his wand forward, forcing the man to his knees. Then, “ _Ibidem duro_ ,” and Carrow turned to stone where he knelt.

Draco took a breath.

The Scorched Earth spell was extremely powerful, meant for meant for laying waste to a landscape. Not for use on _people_. He turned, _Depopulo_ ’s counter-curse on his lips –

And stopped short.

Rowle was up. Bellatrix was waking Yaxley. Greyback had fought free of the cage, and had re-taken his human form, yellow teeth gleaming in the torchlight. But that wasn’t what had Draco’s heart trying to beat out of his chest.

Snape had joined the other Death Eaters.

And, facing them, was Dumbledore.

~*~

“Kill him, Draco,” Bellatrix said.

The silence was profound after the terrifying din of battle. It felt surreal, like none of it had actually happened. Like nothing they had done had made a difference. There stood his Aunt Bellatrix, Yaxley, Rowle, and Greyback, all none the worse for wear. And Dumbledore, just as the Infinity Mirror had shown him, alone in the middle of a battle-scarred hallway.

He had no allies left standing. Even Theo, who had surely been out of the range of the Scorched Earth spell, lay limp and unconscious over Daphne’s body.

“He’s turned,” Yaxley growled. “Isn’t it obvious, Bellatrix? He’s _betrayed_ us.”

She laughed, the sound scratching like claws down Draco’s back. “Oh no, my dear Yaxley. Draco has only been _playing_ at being Harry Potter’s whore. Granted, he does it so _very_ well. But then, the Malfoys always were good at fawning at the feet of those with true power. Did you not notice that he removed the Chosen One from the fight himself? Clever boy. And he drew it out, giving us time until our target showed his face. And now, my dear Yaxley, Albus Dumbledore will die at the wand of the boy his pet so foolishly chose to trust.”

“You will not find that so easy,” Dumbledore said, mildly. His hand was loose around his wand, but that didn’t fool Draco for an instant. The old wizard was dangerous, and his stomach lurched sickeningly at the thought of what the Dark Lord expected of him. He raised his wand. “Draco,” Dumbledore said. “This is not the way. Let me help you.”

“A little too late for that, isn’t it?” Draco said. “You closed that door to me when you turned Harry against me.”

Dumbledore’s eyes were kind, and a little sad. “It is not closed, my boy. You have but to decide where your allegiance lies. With a Dark Lord who holds your parents hostage, or a boy who genuinely loves you – who would do anything for you, even at the cost of his own happiness. I warned him away from you, yes, for your protection. I could not risk your life, and I knew you would be killed if Voldemort learned I knew of your task. Harry knew it, too; it is the only reason he agreed.”

“You _dare_ speak His name!” Bellatrix shrieked. “ _Crucio_!”

Dumbledore stepped to one side. The Unforgivable flashed past him. He never even took his eyes off Draco.

Draco swallowed, jerking his wand up a little higher. “My mother?”

“Will be protected, I give you my –”

“He’s _turned_ ,” Yaxley insisted, loudly. “The boy has been corrupted, Bella! He’s failed! It’s time to –”

“ _Expelliarmus_!” Draco cried.

Yaxley’s wand went flying out of his hand. Draco dropped into a crouch. The other Death Eaters didn’t adjust their aim in time. Their retaliatory spells whizzed over his head.

Then Dumbledore raised his wand, and they turned their attention to him immediately. Draco watched, frightened, as the formidable Headmaster was pushed back, step by step. He whispered the incantation to lift the Scorched Earth curse on the others, but it took time to recover from. Dumbledore was alone. He parried spell after spell, shielding and deflecting and casting counter-spells without a single word. Draco saw his lips move only when he murmured a particularly powerful spell, like when a violent wind whipped up around him, and his eyes shone.

“Get back!” Rowle yelled.

That was all the warning Draco had. He shielded his head with his arms as a _boom_ shattered the air. The Death Eaters were flung back.

But Greyback had flowed seamlessly into his wolf form again. Unaffected, he leaped forward.

A huge boulder dropped from thin air, crushing the wolf to the ground. He howled, high and long.

Bellatrix levitated the boulder off him and sent it flying back at Dumbledore. Dumbledore waved his wand. The boulder exploded into dust. With the same wand movement, he hit Bellatrix with a spell that caused her to stagger, looking dizzy and pale.

“Yaxley!” she snapped, and promptly threw up over him.

The others were already on their feet again. Dumbledore cast a powerful, sweeping _Stupefy_. Snape countered with an equally powerful shield. Draco thought Dumbledore’s Stunner might have taken them all out, if not for that _Protego_. It gave Yaxley the time he needed to free Bellatrix of the Vertigo Curse. Snape was driving forward already with Rowle. Like an arrow they shot straight at him, and Dumbledore was pushed back again.

At last a curse got through the Headmaster’s defences, punching a hole in his shoulder. _Snape’s_ curse.

Draco saw Snape swallow; brace himself. For such a terrible injury, only a flicker of pain showed on Dumbledore’s face, but Draco could see he was tiring. He cauterised the wound, but that moment of inward focus cost Dumbledore dearly. The Death Eaters increased the ferocity of their attack, like bloodhounds sensing imminent victory. When Dumbledore faltered, just once, just briefly, it was enough that he was disarmed. Another spell brought him to his knees.

“Severus,” he said. Draco saw him shake his right sleeve back a little. His eyes caught on Dumbledore’s hand. It was dead; blackened, shrivelled. “Please.”

Bellatrix just laughed again; a high-pitched cackle. “Wrong again, Bumbledore! Wrong, wrong, _wrong_! Snape is ours, just as Draco will be again!”

Draco felt paralysed with fear. It was hopeless. Lupin, McGonagall, Weasley, Blaise… they were all stirring, but too slow. He would have to do it, actually _kill_ Dumbledore –

And then Snape raised his wand. The look on his face was one Draco recognised all too well; he had seen it in his own mirror too many times to count this year. In slow, dawning horror, he saw the words to the Killing Curse form on Snape’s lips.

“ _No_!”

Someone barrelled into Snape’s back. A diminutive spitfire with dark hair and flashing eyes. Draco’s heart soared. _Pansy_. Oh Merlin, she was all right!

The world rushed back in a roar of sound. He stood, shooting off four Stunners in quick succession. Only one of them hit. Greyback staggered back a few steps, snarling. Bellatrix threw Draco a mildly scolding glance as she deflected the one aimed at her, as if he were nothing but a recalcitrant child.

“ _Crucio_!” she cried.

The Headmaster whirled to the side to avoid it, engaging her in a flurry of spells that made Draco’s eyes water. He threw himself back into the battle, fighting to get to Pansy. Finnigan tackled Snape’s legs as Pansy grappled with him. Vince and Greg took on Rowle.

Draco threw a quick _Expelliarmus_ at Yaxley, but apparently that trick only worked once. Yaxley countered and returned with a spell that trailed a tail of grey. The Fortuna Curse.

Draco threw himself out of the way. The Fortuna Curse had no counter, no shield except Felix Felicis. It would cause his every spell to go awry, his every movement to be in the wrong direction. The worst sort of luck that could befall a wizard, especially in battle. Yaxley cast the curse at him again, but Draco was already rolling. He aimed a spell at the man that would make his hands slippery with sweat. It worked. Yaxley lost his grip on his wand.

Draco leapt to his feet. _Improvidia_ , he thought, snapping his wand in a vicious circle. It caused temporary short-sightedness. As Yaxley fought to recover his hold on his wand, Draco disarmed him and sent him into a world of waking nightmares with a simple, “ _Insomnium inconnivus_.”

Without his wand or his eyesight, Yaxley would be helpless.

Draco swung around to help his friends. He froze. Greyback was rising slowly to his feet, yellow eyes barely a foot from Draco’s. Powerful hind legs crouched in readiness for a leap.

Millicent shouted, “ _Nisi vel augue_!”

Greyback recoiled. Draco threw up a hand to shield himself. All around him, the others were getting to their feet, unsteady and swaying. Blaise was in the path of the fireball, and he _wasn’t moving_.

“ _SILANUS_!” Draco cried.

A powerful jet of water crashed into the fireball. It dissipated into boiling steam, threatening to scald Blaise where he stood, dazed. Draco flung him backwards, out of the way, just as a huge body slammed into him, knocking him to the ground. Something cracked in his chest.

Winded, Draco stared up at sharp, gleaming teeth. His hand flexed… around nothing.

He’d dropped his wand.

He breathed in, and it _hurt_. Something in him quietened. Had he seen this in the Mirror? He couldn’t remember. All he could remember, suddenly, was the Dark Lord’s threat. Maybe it was always supposed to be this way. Maybe he was always supposed to die at Greyback’s teeth.

Greyback snapped at him almost playfully. Draco flinched.

 _Promise me_ , Harry’s voice whispered.

He stared at the enormous teeth, dripping with saliva. And then he gritted his teeth against the pain, the wet sound of each sucking breath. He drew his legs up, and kicked out at Greyback’s chest with all the strength he had left.

It wasn’t enough. Draco was already rolling, but the werewolf was forced back only a step. He snarled, and a huge paw thumped down on Draco’s chest, pinning him in place. His chest crumpled, his world exploding in agony. Hot, foul-smelling breath ghosted over his neck.

Draco sobbed, mindless with pain and fear. _I tried,_ he thought. _I’m so sorry_ –

A flash of glinting silver.

Hot blood spurted all over his face. His rescuer plunged the dagger in deeper, twisting. It poured out in a rank, stinking flood. Draco tried to throw his hands up to protect his face, but they were useless, weak. The pain of trying to move them made him scream. It came out as a wet gurgle.

The body of the wolf fell to the side, transformed back into a man.

Draco looked up, spitting blood from his mouth. There was blood in his eyes, too, but he recognised the face of his saviour. “P-Professor Lupin.” He coughed, struggling to breathe. His lungs were filling up with blood. He was dying. “I – I owe you my –”

Lupin shook his head. “You owe me nothing. That was a debt long owed to _me_.” His face was still pale and sickly from the Scorched Earth spell, but there something very dark and sad and satisfied in his gaze. “Call me Remus,” he said.

Then someone aimed a Killing Curse at him, and he whirled back into the mêlée.

Draco’s vision turned black.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for your comments and kudos! xx

**CHAPTER THIRTEEN**

**THE DEPTHS OF HIS BETRAYAL**

Part Two

Harry was swimming in a vast nothingness. It was cold and pitch black, and a tide of apathy threatened to pull him back under, to drown him in the deceptively sweet oblivion of unconsciousness. But something terrible was happening. He needed to wake up. _Danger_ , his subconscious sang, _danger, danger_ –

“... okay! Harry, it’s okay now. You’re safe.”

He jerked awake, eyes flying open. “Draco!” he gasped.

But it wasn’t Draco crouching next to him. It was Hermione. “It’s okay,” she said, again. Harry realised he was on his stomach on a bed. He pressed his hands into the mattress, trying to push himself up, only to drop back down with a cry of pain. Her hands darted out, fluttering over him anxiously. “Oh, Harry, _don’t_! You’ve been hurt!”

“I have to – Draco –”

“Stop,” she said, pressing a gentle hand to his upper back. “I know. But it’s over. We won. You have to stay still now, Harry.”

“We won,” Harry echoed. He relaxed cautiously, turning his head so he could see her properly. “Where’s Draco? What happened?”

She hesitated, and Harry’s heart lurched. “No, no!” she said, hastily. “He’s just – he's been injured. Madam Pomfrey has him in a healing coma, and there are Healers from St Mungo’s helping.” She swallowed. “He was on the brink, when we found him. He was fighting it, but I don’t think he would have lasted much longer.”

“Merlin,” Harry said, horrified. “I have to see him. I have to –”

“No,” Hermione said, when he went to rise again. “ _No_ , Harry. You were injured, too.”

Right. He remembered shoving Draco down. He didn’t remember the wall exploding, but it must have. He reached back carefully, and bit down on a scream. “Fuck!” he said, panting. He looked around, disoriented. They were in a small room; nowhere he recognised. Certainly not the infirmary. “Where are we? Where's Draco?”

“We’re in the Room of Requirement,” she told him. “Madam Pomfrey didn’t want to move you until the healing magic settled. There’s still shrapnel in your back. It’s lodged near your spine. Some of the nerves were damaged. Nothing she can’t repair, but she wanted to be careful.”

“My spine?” Harry said, dismayed. “Should I be –?”

“It’s fixed in place now,” Hermione assured him. “But before that… if the shrapnel had shifted even a little –” She looked tearful suddenly. “Oh, Harry, Draco was incredible. He got you in here, in the middle of a battle, so careful that the rock didn’t shift at _all_. And then he went straight back out there, and saved my life. Ron even offered him his hand in friendship.”

That struck Harry as the kind of thing he and Ron would have found uproariously funny (and completely ridiculous) just a few weeks ago. “Where is Ron?” he asked. “Where’s Draco? What _happened_?”

“He’s in the infirmary,” she said. “Safe. Ron, too. But – it was Greyback.” Harry felt all the colour drain from his face. “Oh no, Harry, no,” she said, apologetically. “He hasn’t been turned. Greyback – well, he _crushed_ him. Broke four ribs and punctured a lung. Malfoy, he – he was asphyxiating on his own blood, when we found him. But Madam Pomfrey is _confident_ they can save him. Really. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“I should be with him,” Harry said.

Hermione sighed. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I left him,” Harry said, distressed. _“Again._ He needed me, and I wasn’t there.”

“You were,” she said. “If it weren’t for you, he would have had no reason to defect. He saved your life, Harry. And mine. He took Carrow out singlehandedly. He’s a _hero_ , because of you. You saved him.”

Harry shook his head miserably. “I should have taken my chances with Skeeter. Maybe if I had, I could’ve convinced him to defect _before_ letting the Death Eaters in. And now –”

“Now he’s defected,” Hermione said, firmly. “And everyone survived, thanks to you and your Felix Felicis.”

“Everyone?” Harry said, relief flooding through him. “And – the Death Eaters?”

“Greyback’s dead. Bellatrix is in some kind of coma, and the rest are all in custody.” She hesitated, and then said, “Including Snape.”

Harry’s eyes snapped up to meet hers. “Snape?”

“You were right all along,” she said, looking faintly bewildered. “He was a traitor. He betrayed us all. He Stunned me, and then he tried to kill Dumbledore. Everyone was unconscious, and Dumbledore was unarmed. If Pansy hadn’t come round the corner at exactly the right moment –”

Harry blinked. “ _Pansy_ saved Dumbledore’s life?”

“Yes. Although you wouldn’t know it from the way Dumbledore’s treating her. He’s been so cold with her, like he’s angry she stopped Snape. I don’t understand it at all.”

Harry frowned. “How long have I been out?”

“Just since yesterday –”

His heart dropped. “ _Yesterday_?”

“It’s all right,” she assured him, quickly. “I know what you’re thinking, but none of the Death Eaters escaped. Voldemort won’t know Draco’s defected, yet. He won’t even know the mission failed. Gibbon – one of the Death Eaters – he was trying to put the Dark Mark in the sky above the castle. Draco sent Pansy after him, thinking he was going to warn Voldemort. She let him put the Dark Mark up before Stunning him.”

Harry stared at her. “Did anyone see…?”

“A lot of the students,” Hermione agreed. “Dumbledore’s not pleased. The Ministry even sent Aurors to investigate. But I do see Pansy’s point. Voldemort will have been expecting it, so it buys us some time. Even if his followers haven’t turned up yet, the Dark Mark implies their mission was successful, at least in part.”

~*~

Harry insisted on going to the infirmary, anyway. Dark Mark or not, Voldemort had to be growing suspicious by now. It had been over twenty-four hours. If he decided to take it out on Draco’s mum…

Hermione pleaded with him, but when Harry made it clear that he was going with or without her, she escorted him there reluctantly, wand hovering over him in case the rock shifted. But they made it there without incident, and he stopped short in the doorway, staring. He had never seen so many infirmary beds filled at once.

“ _Merlin_ ,” he breathed. There had been seven Death Eaters. What would have happened if there had been more? A whole army? “You said Bill and Tonks and Remus were there, right? And the professors, and Dumbledore. Why –?”

“Dumbledore didn’t arrive until well after me,” Hermione explained. “He went to make sure all the students were out of the castle first, and he sent the other professors to defend them, down by the lake.”

Harry froze. “The Death Eaters didn’t get that far, surely?”

“No,” Hermione said. “The only one who went further than the immediate area outside the Room of Requirement was Gibbon, and he didn’t go after any students. Unfortunately… pretty much everyone still standing at the end got caught by Carrow’s Scorched Earth Curse. It can’t kill people, but it knocked everyone out in range of the spell. Which was small, fortunately, because Carrow cast it wandlessly, and he’s not very powerful. But Madam Pomfrey says it doesn’t just knock people unconscious, it _takes_ something out of them. She said it exacerbated any injuries sustained before the spell, and recovery time is tripled.”

“Draco?” Harry said, heart in his throat.

“No,” Hermione said. “That came after.”

Harry nodded. He looked around. Flitwick was still unconscious. Madam Pomfrey and two Healers in St Mungo’s robes were hovering over Daphne. Next to her, Zabini’s body looked to be unnaturally frozen. Ginny was curled up in the chair next to him, snoring softly.

But Remus and McGonagall were sitting up in their beds, eating. There was a vivid scar running down the side of Luna’s neck, but otherwise she was happily sharing a bowl of thin broth with a Pygmy Puff and Neville, who had both arms in slings. Bill, his face a mess of open wounds, but smiling, was surrounded by a sea of red hair and one very blonde one.

“What happened to Bill?” Harry asked, his stomach sinking. “Are those… _claw_ marks?”

Hermione nodded. “There wasn’t enough Felix Felicis to go around. Bill gave the last swallow to Daphne, instead of taking it himself. It probably saved her life. You should have seen her, Harry. They broke her back, her neck was twisted... it was awful. Bill saved her life.”

Harry swallowed. “Is he a werewolf now?”

Hermione shook her head. “Tonks pulled him off in time. Madam Pomfrey just thinks he’ll have some bad scarring, and maybe a taste for rare steaks. And Fleur and Mrs Weasley have made up. They’re the best of friends now! Fleur got really offended when Mrs Weasley implied she wouldn’t want to marry Bill anymore – you know, because of the scars –”

Harry didn’t even try to puzzle that one out. “Ron’s sitting with Draco,” he interrupted. With all the other Weasleys at Bill’s bedside, it made the single red head off to one side fairly conspicuous.

She smiled. “We didn’t think you’d want him to wake alone.”

“Thank you,” Harry said, and he meant it. Of course, Pansy was sitting with him as well, but Ron had been there for _him_.

“Of course,” she said. “Go, sit with him for a minute. I’ll ask Madam Pomfrey about Dumbledore. Just don’t forget about that shrapnel.”

Harry gave her a small smile. “Yes, ma’am,” he teased, and hurried away before she could hex him.

Ron looked up at his approach. He looked very tired, but he mustered a smile. “Harry,” he said. “Should you be up?”

“I could ask the same,” Harry said. “But Hermione helped. Thanks for,” he waved a hand at Draco awkwardly.

Ron shrugged. “He proved himself yesterday.”

A lump formed in Harry’s throat, and he gripped Ron’s shoulder, hard.

“Potter,” Pansy greeted him.

Harry nodded at her, taking a seat carefully on the bed next to his boyfriend. _Ex-boyfriend_ , he reminded himself. He couldn’t let himself forget that; what his decision had cost them. Draco’s breathing was wet, laboured. It was obvious Madam Pomfrey hadn’t been able to do more than stabilise him yet.

He felt tears start to his eyes. “Merlin.” Bending, he kissed the pale lips. Just that brief contact made something surge between them, and he gasped, pulling back. It was warm, and _bright_ , and so soft, like the sun caressing his skin. _Draco’s soul_. So they were still connected, Harry thought, and the pure, uncomplicated happiness he felt at that was both stupid and painful.

But the feeling didn’t go away, and he realised he could _feel_ magic rushing through Draco, and into him. And then – back into Draco, taking the paths that flowed naturally through Draco’s body, to the broken ribs and punctured lung. It wanted to heal him. It was _trying_ , but Harry found himself slamming up against a barrier, again and again. Every path repulsed him. There was something wrong, inside Draco. Something fundamental.

“The potions,” he realised. Ron just stared at him blankly, but there was a small intake of breath from Pansy. “He’s been taking potions all year just to stay awake,” Harry explained. “I think somehow his addiction is blocking me.”

Ron frowned. “Blocking you from what?”

“Potter,” Pansy warned, but Harry ignored her. He knew what to do, now.

Opening himself up, he let the magic flow into Draco. It washed away the taint, healing the ruined pathways. He wasn’t sure how, but between one moment and the next, Draco’s cheeks filled with colour, his breathing eased, and his eyes opened.

~*~

Madam Pomfrey took the shrapnel out of Harry’s back with a simple spell, and then insisted he lie on his stomach “for at _least_ an hour, Mr Potter”, while the muscle and nerves and skin knitted back together.

She was understandably shocked by Draco’s abrupt recovery, and the two Healers practically tripped over each other in their eagerness to find out what had happened.

Harry grabbed her arm, shaking his head meaningfully.

Her eyes widened, and she took the Healers to one side. After a furiously whispered conversation, they consented to let the matter rest; temporarily, at least. Harry was grateful. Their magic was not what was important right now.

The Healers returned to Zabini. They were in the fourth stage of reversing an accidental combination of a curse designed to rip out a person’s insides in excruciating slow motion, and an Acceleration Curse. The Healers were hard-pressed to keep him sedated as they worked.

Ginny slept on beside him, oblivious. Apparently she’d been awake all night, helping tend to the wounded.

Meanwhile, Madam Pomfrey moved Harry to the bed in the private room usually reserved for quarantining contagious magical illnesses. Dumbledore had called an emergency meeting of the Order, and they were holding it in the infirmary out of courtesy for those injured. Bill wasn’t in any state to attend, but Remus walked in on his own feet, supported by Tonks, who waved at Harry.

“Wotcher, Harry! Good as new, mostly!”

Harry stared, a bit. The bright purple hair was back, streaked with a bold pink, and her grin almost split her face.

“Turns out she’s been in love with Professor Lupin all year,” Hermione whispered in his ear, “only he was too afraid to let it develop into anything, because of the age difference, you know, and the werewolf thing. But when Fleur told Mrs Weasley she was going to marry Bill no matter what, Tonks told Lupin that his reasons were stupid, and they kissed. It was so sweet.”

Oh, Harry thought. So Tonks’ misery had had nothing to do with Sirius, after all. It was a painful realisation, and yet, somehow, liberating. He’d killed Sirius, but at least he hadn’t destroyed Tonks’ life, too.

After Remus and Tonks came Dumbledore, a rather pale Professor McGonagall, Fleur, and Kingsley Shacklebolt. Arthur and Molly Weasley, holding hands. And finally Mad-Eye Moody, who dragged Snape in by his wrists.

Moody forced him to his knees in the middle of the room. His magical eye spun wildly in all directions, and he nodded approvingly. “Not bad. Not as secure as your office, Albus, but it’ll do in a pinch.”

Dumbledore sighed. “Is that really necessary, Alastor?”

“He’s a traitor,” Moody spat.

“He tried to _kill_ you, Albus!” Molly said. “We’re just lucky that young girl did what she did. It can’t have been easy for the poor child, being a Slytherin, and her father a known Death Eater. She made a very brave decision.”

“What are we going to do with him?” Remus asked.

“Hand him over to us,” Tonks said, looking at Kingsley for confirmation. “Right?”

Kingsley nodded. “I see no reason not to prosecute him to the fullest extent of the law.”

“De _law_ ,” Fleur said, with great sarcasm. “What law is dis, when half the Wizengamot is already under You-Know-Who’s sway, and de rest would excuse the use of an Unforgivable against a _child_?”

Harry glanced at Draco. He was sitting on the side of Harry’s bed, gazing off into the distance as if he couldn’t even hear the conversation around him. He’d barely spoken a word since he’d realised how long it had been since the battle; just vomited, twice, and then clung to Harry’s hand, gripping so tightly it hurt. Not even the news about the Dark Mark had changed the look in those bleak grey eyes.

Moody scoffed. “Child, indeed! He’s a Malfoy! He let the Death Eaters into the castle! Obviously following in his precious daddy’s footsteps. A Death Eater, too, I’ll be bound!” He took a step forward and grabbed Draco’s left arm, shoving up his sleeve. Draco startled badly. “Aha!”

The Dark Mark was an unsightly stain on Draco’s pale skin, and everyone fell silent.

Harry grabbed Moody’s hand and threw it off. “Draco is _not_ his father!” he snapped. He felt awkward talking from such an odd position, but Ron pressed a firm hand to his back when he tried to rise, so he settled for glaring. “And he’s _defected_. He’s fought with us. He saved my _life_!”

“He can’t be trusted, Potter,” Moody snorted. “He’s betrayed one side. Who’s to say he won’t do it again? Once a turncoat, always a turncoat!”

“We’ve been deceived once, Mr Potter,” Professor McGonagall agreed. “We all thought Severus was on our side, and now this.” She shook her head, eyes lingering on the man at their feet. “I just can’t believe it. A traitor in our midst, all this time.”

“You’re right,” Draco drawled. He drew up a knee, curling his arm around it loosely. “He is a traitor. He betrayed the Dark Lord long before I did.”

Snape looked up quickly, frowning.

“According to Miss Parkinson’s report, he cast the Killing Curse at Dumbledore,” Kingsley said. “You were there, Mr Malfoy. Are you saying that’s not what you saw?”

“It’s what I saw,” Draco agreed, mildly. Harry shifted, feeling uneasy at the direction the conversation was going. “Which makes me wonder why our esteemed Headmaster _wanted_ to be murdered last night.”

Voices raised in a clamour of outrage.

“Well, I never!” Molly gasped.

“Bollocks!” Moody snapped. “Why are we listening to this boy? He’s practised in the art of deception! They all are!”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “You are being deceived,” he said. “But it isn’t by me, and it isn’t by Professor Snape. He was following orders. I saw Dumbledore beg him to do it.”

“And I suppose he couldn’t have been begging for his life?” Moody said. “Something I’d think _you’d_ be familiar with, given the number of victims your father has had killed or tortured or maimed!”

Even Ron’s restraining hand couldn’t keep Harry down this time, and he was in Moody’s face before the other man could blink, shrapnel injury be damned. “Draco is _not_ his father! Do you hear me? He’s one of us now, whether you like it or not! I made a promise to protect him, and his mother, and I will keep it!”

Moody’s eyebrows rose. “After his betrayal, and Snape’s failure? You’re a fool if you think Narcissa Malfoy is still alive, Potter.”

Harry didn’t miss Draco’s flinch, and it made him angrier. He knew what it was like to grow up without a mother. He would not let that happen to Draco. “I made a _promise_ ,” he hissed.

“And in doing so, you have destroyed what has taken _years_ of planning to get to this point,” Dumbledore said. His quiet, disappointed tone was like a punch to the gut, and Harry stilled, guilt rising like bile in his throat.

“But, sir!” Hermione protested. “He saved your life! Without Harry’s promise, Pansy would never have been there to stop Snape. And he’s right. We should honour our word, or we’re no better than them.”

“Have I taught none of you _anything_?” Moody said, disgustedly. “Constant vigilance!” he barked, making them all jump. “This _reeks_ of a trap!” His magic eye spun to fix on Draco. “And even if it’s not, we have no obligation to help a _Death Eater_.”

Harry ignored the Auror, frowning at Dumbledore. “You said I had to stay away from Draco until he made his decision, sir. You said you would offer him sanctuary then. You _promised_.”

“And he did,” Draco said. Harry turned to look at him in surprise. “And then he begged Professor Snape to kill him, which, now that I think about it, could only have negated his very generous offer, considering we were surrounded by Death Eaters at the time, and he was intending to die.”

“Draco...” Harry shook his head. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe him, but... it was _Dumbledore_.

Draco looked away, shrugging slightly.

Harry tried to think. “You said you wouldn’t let Draco kill you,” he said, to Dumbledore. “But you also said he had a role to play. Was it – was it a _performance_? For who? The Death Eaters? Did you know he was planning to let them into Hogwarts?” There was a flicker in Dumbledore’s eyes, and a part of Harry – the part that had loved, and trusted Dumbledore; the part that had believed, unconditionally, that whatever he did, it was with the best of intentions – that part died, a little. “You _did_ ,” he said, in disbelief. “You _wanted_ Draco to succeed. You wanted the Death Eaters in Hogwarts! Why?”

“No.” It was Snape who had spoken. He ignored Moody’s threatening step forward, focusing on Harry. “No one wanted this, Potter; least of all Dumbledore. He could only do the best he could with what information he had, to protect the school. To protect you, and Draco.”

Harry scowled at him. “Shut up! I know you’re a traitor, even if you were acting under Dumbledore’s orders!”

Snape visibly cringed, but it was Draco that caught Harry’s attention. He had frozen, fists clenched. “You knew Dumbledore was my target,” he said, tone very neutral.

Harry winced. “I found out yesterday. I’m sorry, Draco. I couldn’t tell you.”

“I don’t understand,” Molly said, bewildered. “Albus, was Severus following your orders or not?”

“Is that why you broke up with me?” Draco asked.

“No!” Harry said. “I mean… yes? Sort of. I was trying to protect you, Draco.” He reached out tentatively, but although Draco allowed the touch, he held himself rigidly. Harry’s hand fell away. “Professor,” he said, turning back to Dumbledore, “we have to get his mum out of Malfoy Manor. We owe it to him. Don’t you see that? None of this matters right now. It can wait. She can’t.”

Dumbledore nodded. “I will explain what I can, to all of you. But Harry is right. We have an obligation to fulfil – yes, I’m afraid we _do_ , Alastor – before it is too late.”

~*~

They decided on a small team. It was Draco’s suggestion; he argued that their objective was to infiltrate Malfoy Manor and rescue one witch, not launch an all-out attack on one of Voldemort’s major strongholds. The wards were too powerful, and the casualties would be too great. He also refused to even countenance the idea of giving them a way through the wards if Dumbledore was part of the mission.

“If he dies, you’ll blame me,” he said. “You know you will. I want this to succeed. It’s my _mother_.”

After a great deal of back and forth, and yelling about traps and traitors and letting a snot-nosed kid give them orders, they were all overruled by Dumbledore. Kingsley, Moody and Tonks returned to the Ministry to begin preparations. They had agreed that infiltrating under the cover of darkness would have the greatest likelihood of success, as well as giving those affected by the Scorched Earth spell time to recover.

“I’m going too,” Harry said stubbornly, when he was alone with the Headmaster at last.

Dumbledore shook his head. “I’m afraid that is not up to you, Harry. I cannot deny Mr Malfoy the right to be on the team that retrieves his mother, but they are going into the very _heart_ of Voldemort’s operation.”

“All the more reason I should go,” Harry insisted. “It’s my responsibility to kill Voldemort. I won’t let anyone else die when I could do something about it!”

Dumbledore sighed. “Harry, you know as well as I do that Voldemort cannot die until we have destroyed all of his Horcruxes.”

“But we don’t even know where any of the other Horcruxes _are_.”

“Actually,” Dumbledore said, slowly, “I believe I may have determined the location of one. Do you remember the stories I told you of Tom Riddle’s childhood? How, when he lived in the orphanage, he took two other children into some caves nearby, where he performed an act so horrifying, he traumatised them into silence?”

Harry nodded. “You said he might have hidden one of his Horcruxes there.”

“Indeed. Those caves would have been of great significance to the young Tom Riddle. And I believe I have finally located them.” Dumbledore paused. “Harry, I know we spoke of this some time ago, but would you still like to go with me?”

“Absolutely,” Harry said, without even thinking. And then, “What, not now?”

“What better time than when Voldemort is elsewhere occupied?” Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling.

“No.” Harry shook his head. “No, sir, I’m sorry. I can’t.”

Dumbledore lost his smile. “My boy –”

“I _can’t_ ,” Harry insisted. “You have to let me go with Draco. You have to let me keep my word to him. I owe that to him, after everything.”

Dumbledore sighed heavily. “I can’t say I like it, but I suppose you must do as you feel is right.”

“Then I can go?”

Dumbledore nodded. “But first, sit down, Harry. I need you to listen to me. What I am about to tell you is of the utmost importance. This,” he waved a hand between them. “This conversation, this mission, none of it was meant to be. Mr Malfoy was correct. I did intend to die, last night.”

Harry stopped halfway to his seat. “ _What_?”

“I am dying already,” Dumbledore said, lifting his blackened hand. “The moment I put on Slytherin’s ring, in a foolish moment of weakness, I cursed myself to a long and painful death. Severus, despite his best efforts, could discover no way to save me. And then we discovered Voldemort’s next target. Me.”

“So, what, you just gave up?” Harry said, incredulously.

“Of course not. What I told you before was true. I never intended to allow Mr Malfoy to murder me. Narcissa Malfoy apparently felt the same way. She went to Professor Snape with her sister, Bellatrix, and pleaded with him to save her son. The result being that Severus made an Unbreakable Vow to complete Draco’s task should the boy fail to do so. He did so with my complete approval.”

Harry’s mouth dropped open. “An Unbreakable Vow? But that means –”

“Indeed. By indirectly saving my life, you have exposed the one spy we had within Voldemort’s inner circle, and condemned us both to slow, painful deaths.”

Harry stared at him. “I didn’t know,” he blurted, horrified. Was there to be no end to his mistakes? “I’m so sorry, sir.”

“We must deal with the consequences now, Harry,” Dumbledore chided, gently enough. “Not bemoan the past.”

Harry scrubbed his hands over his face. “But then Draco was right. You really were begging Snape to kill you. So how were you going to save him?”

“Severus had orders to care for the boy,” Dumbledore told him.

“Snape?” Harry said, blankly. “How could _he_ help, if he’d just killed you? They’d both be –” He cut himself off. “They’d be criminals,” he realised. “Fugitives. On the run from everyone. The Order, the Ministry. Even – oh Merlin, even _Voldemort_. How would that look, failing his task, Snape taking over –”

“He would have had his life,” Dumbledore pointed out.

Harry lurched to his feet, furious and sick to his stomach. “You promised him safety! Sanctuary! You promised _me_! This whole time, you never wanted us together – you made that the deal with Skeeter –”

Dumbledore looked grave. “As I told young Draco, that was for his protection. You would not listen to my pleas, and for the sake of the war effort, it was vital that I stop your foolish plan. If he had taken your offer of protection sooner –”

“The Death Eaters would never have breached Hogwarts,” Harry said, in a tight voice. “Your little performance, offering Draco protection and then begging Snape to kill you, would never have happened. You’d have been faced with a long, slow death from a curse, with no great, important meaning behind it. Just like now.”

He thought he saw a flash of anger in Dumbledore’s eyes. The old wizard looked down at his hands, long fingers twisting together. He took a slow, calming breath. “Harry,” he said, eventually. “I forget, sometimes, how well you know me. You’re right, of course. I let my pride get the better of me; something I have spent my whole life trying to prevent. It was an old man’s folly, to want my death to be meaningful in some way. And, in truth, the stakes were far greater than simply my death. Maintaining Professor Snape’s cover, most importantly.” He looked at Harry again, blue eyes piercing. “You cannot understand just how much he has already contributed to the war effort. Everything might already be lost were it not for him. And I wished to prevent Mr Malfoy from taking the first step down the path his father had carved for him, and to help _you_ understand that even the Malfoys of this world deserve the chance to change.”

“I figured that out for myself, thanks,” Harry said, coldly.

Dumbledore smiled sadly. “So you did, my boy. And I have never been prouder of you. But I fear very much that working at cross-purposes will mean our individual efforts have been in vain. We needed Severus. We needed a spy within Voldemort’s ranks, and I cannot even find the words to convey to you just how desperate our situation is now. I don’t mean to blame you; clearly I have lost your trust, and that is my fault –”

“You didn’t trust me, either!” Harry said. “This was Sirius, all over again. Why didn’t you tell me? If you’d told me, _trusted_ me –”

“To let me die?” Dumbledore said, very gently.

Harry hesitated.

“You have a good heart,” Dumbledore said, his eyes growing wet. “And I am truly sorry for keeping so much from you. One just never knows when the right time is, really, to burden one so young with all that you must bear, eventually, in order to fulfil the prophecy.”

Harry shifted uncomfortably. “I know you just want to protect me, sir.”

“And yet,” Dumbledore said, as a tear slipped down his face, “and yet I have withheld something else, something _crucial_ to defeating Voldemort, because I wanted you to be ready. But how could I decide when you were ready for this?”

Harry looked at him apprehensively. “For what, sir?”

“I have suspected it for some time,” Dumbledore said, “but when Madam Pomfrey told me what she’d seen in your core… that was when I knew. A connection such as that which you share with Voldemort does not arise from a rebounded Killing Curse. The darkness inside you –”

“It’s a Horcrux.”

It was as if he’d always known; as if the knowledge had been buried in his soul, his whole life, just waiting for him to acknowledge it.

“I wondered if you knew,” Dumbledore said, more tears slipping down his face. “It has been inside you almost your entire life. I believe it was an accident on Voldemort’s part. After splitting his soul so many times, it must have become unstable. When he cast that Killing Curse the final time, a piece of his soul must have detached itself from what was left of the whole, and latched onto the nearest living thing. Making you an inadvertent Horcrux, and Voldemort none the wiser.”

“So,” Harry said hoarsely, and he cleared his throat. “So… I have to die.”

~*~

Dumbledore was silent.

Harry sank into his chair. He’d half-expected, half-hoped, that Dumbledore would scold him for the theatrics, like Draco so often did. _Don’t be so bloody melodramatic, Potter. Of course_ _there’s a way to destroy a Horcrux inside a person_...

“There’s really no other way?” he asked, ashamed of the way his voice cracked.

“I’m afraid not,” Dumbledore told him.

Harry felt empty; hollowed out. He couldn’t look up at the Headmaster, despite the achingly kind voice that urged him to. He just couldn’t process it. Not so very long ago, he remembered asking Luna if he would have to die, and her nonsensical answer about the mating habits of gerblins had actually given him _comfort_. He was such a fool. All of his childish, selfish whining about not wanting to die, his promise to Draco to _live_ –

Oh Merlin, Draco.

Harry felt the pain stab through him like a knife. “ _Draco_.”

The door was thrown open, making them both jump. Then, impossibly, Draco was there, strong, warm arms embracing him, driving away the pain like a Patronus driving away Dementors. “What have you done to him?” Draco demanded.

“This is a private conversation, Mr Malfoy,” Dumbledore said, icily.

“I want him here,” Harry said, voice muffled in Draco’s robes.

“Harry,” Dumbledore said, with an edge of warning. “This is not information to be entrusted to a Death Eater, even one who has possibly defected.”

“Possibly?” Harry looked up, incredulous. Draco’s arms tightened around him. “He _betrayed_ them –”

“Even so,” Dumbledore interrupted. “This is highly sensitive information. One wrong word, even unintentionally, could be our undoing. It is not something I would recommend you tell even your closest friends, let alone your paramour.”

Draco snorted.

Harry set his jaw. “He’s not my _paramour_. He’s my boyfriend. And I’m just going to tell him afterwards, so you might as well save me the trouble of repeating it all.”

“Harry, you told me yourself, your feelings for Mr Malfoy –”

“Are _real_ ,” Harry said sharply, panicking, “and stronger than you could understand. Sir.”

Dumbledore frowned, searching his face.

Harry just stared back at him, _willing_ him to understand. This was not the time to tell Draco the truth about The Plan. He had already hurt him so much. If Draco reacted badly… it might mean losing the opportunity to save his mother. And Harry was under no illusions about what would happen then. Draco’s mother was _everything_ to him. Harry would lose him, maybe forever.

He couldn’t bear that.

At last, Dumbledore sighed, relenting. “I cannot endorse this course of action,” he said. “You know nothing of the justifications he has given to Lord Voldemort for his relationship with you, nor the information he has offered in exchange for leniency. This particular information might even be enough for him to win back his place in Voldemort’s inner circle, despite his betrayal last night.”

Draco shook his head. “I made my choice,” he said, evenly. “I’m not interested in being the reason Harry doesn’t have all the facts he needs to rescue my mother. You can put up an Imperturbable, or _Muffliato_. Whatever you need to do. But I’m staying right here.”

Dumbledore opened his mouth, but Harry beat him to it. “No. I’m sorry, sir, but I want him to know.”

Dumbledore sighed again. He stood and moved over to the window, turning his back to the room. It was a clear statement of disapproval, but Harry found he didn’t mind so much. His faith in Dumbledore had been shaken, and he needed something else to hold onto right now. Someone else.

“How much do you know about my connection with Voldemort?” he asked Draco.

Draco shrugged. “Just what I told you. That a prophecy binds you together, and that the Dark Lord wants you dead, to the exclusion of almost all else.”

“He manages to wreck havoc pretty well, despite that,” Harry said, bitterly. He took a deep breath, fisting his hands nervously in Draco’s robes. “You know the story. The Killing Curse rebounded, which gave me this scar. But the reason the curse rebounded… it was my mother, not me. She sacrificed her life for mine when she’d been offered the chance to live.”

Draco nodded, clearly unsurprised. “My father mentioned something about that. Blood protection?”

“Yes. But what you don’t know is that when the curse rebounded, our minds became connected. That’s because in trying to murder me, Voldemort accidentally tore part of his soul. It attached itself to the only living thing in the room at the time. Me.”

Draco stared at him, horrified. “Part of his _soul_?”

“It’s called a Horcrux –”

“I know what it’s called,” Draco said. “You’re a _Horcrux_? How is that even possible? In a living soul, that’s – that’s _foul._ ” Harry flinched, trying to draw back, and Draco glared at him. “Don’t be stupid, Potter. I didn’t mean you.”

“But it’s part of me,” Harry said. “It’s been there as long as you’ve known me. My whole life. I’m _corrupted_ –”

Draco stopped him with a finger over his lips. “I need to tell you something, Harry. Will you listen?” Harry looked at him uncertainly. But Draco’s eyes were calm, steady; the grey of the sea a storm had just passed over. Harry nodded mutely, and Draco smiled. “Right at the end, before I passed out,” he said, “and I thought I was going to die –”

“I’m so sorry!” Harry blurted. He’d broken his vow to never let Greyback anywhere near Draco, and he’d allowed himself to be taken out of the fight almost before it began, leaving Draco at the werewolf’s mercy. “I promised to protect you, and I failed. ”

“You saved my life first, remember?” Draco said, patiently. “Now, let me talk.” Harry nodded again, and Draco smiled. “Greyback was dead, but I knew that had only delayed my death. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t even call for help. I knew that if someone didn’t notice me soon, I would drown in my own blood. I made a promise in that moment, Harry. To myself, to you, to Merlin himself. I promised that if I survived, I would tell you the truth about how I feel.”

Harry stared at him, heart suddenly hammering in his chest. “F-feel?”

“Eloquent as ever,” Draco mocked, gently. His eyes were bright. “I love you, Harry. I’m in love with you. I have been for some time. I just couldn’t tell you until I was sure. Not about my feelings; I’ve never been surer of anything in my life. But about which path I would take. And now I’ve chosen, and I can tell you.”

Harry felt as if all the air had been sucked out of his lungs.

For one brief, shining moment, he could only think: Draco loved him. Draco _loved_ him!

And then, like being submerged in ice-cold water, he remembered The Plan. _If you gain his trust_ , Pansy had said, all those weeks ago, _you have his heart. Please, please be careful with it._

He opened his mouth, intending to confess everything. But, “I feel the same,” was what came out, and he stared at Draco in horror and self-loathing. _Coward_ , he thought furiously. He was a fucking _coward_.

Draco tugged a strand of Harry’s hair. “I know,” he said, smiling. “Which is why I forgive you for breaking up with me.”

Harry stared at him. _Fuck_. “I am sorry,” he said, wretchedly. “Skeeter found out about your task. She was going to publish, and you would have been expelled. Maybe arrested, if Voldemort didn't get to you first. I couldn’t tell you –”

“No,” Draco interrupted. “Don’t apologise for that. Whatever you’ve withheld from me, I have withheld twice as much. But, Harry, you let yourself be manipulated into breaking up with me, right at the moment I needed you the most. That, I think, entitles me to one hell of an apology.”

“You’re right,” Harry said, helplessly. “I –”

“You may grovel later,” Draco told him, loftily. “I expect something creative, Potter.”

Harry smiled despite himself. Draco’s smile in return was dazzling, and Harry felt such a desperate affection for him in that moment that it almost overwhelmed him. He leaned in and pressed a chaste kiss to Draco’s lips, closing his eyes. It was an impossibly sweet kiss, and he thought time might even have stopped.

But then Draco placed his hands on Harry’s chest, easing him back. “Now, tell me about this Horcrux. The ‘darkness’ Madam Pomfrey spoke of in your core. That’s it?”

And Harry fell back a step and opened his eyes, staring at Draco blindly. The Horcrux.

He was a _Horcrux_.

For a moment there, he’d actually forgotten. Forgotten that he was a living, breathing incubator for a piece of the soul of the most evil wizard in the world. None of this mattered. None of it. There was no reason he ever had to tell Draco the truth. He’d be dead soon enough, anyway. Surely it was better that Draco remember his false love than his very real betrayal?

“I think so,” he replied, numbly.

“Accidentally, too,” Draco mused. “But the only way his soul could have been that fragile is if he’d done it before. Many times.”

“Six,” Harry said. “I mean. Seven, I suppose, including me. But we were going on the assumption that he intended to have a total of seven pieces, including his own. I must have been a mistake.”

“Fuck,” Draco said.

“Yeah,” Harry said. He took a deep breath. “You realise this means I can’t keep my promise to you? I have to die, so Voldemort can die. Otherwise, what happened last time will happen again. The Horcruxes make him, essentially, immortal. _I_ make him immortal.”

Which gave the title Chosen One a whole new, darker meaning.

Draco looked at him calmly. “And you knew, did you, when you made that promise, that you would one day be offering yourself up for death like a sacrificial lamb to the slaughter?”

“What? No!” Harry gripped Draco’s hands tightly. Unlike his own, violently loud outbursts of temper, Draco’s anger tended to manifest itself in quiet, deadly sarcasm, and Harry felt panicked that he’d provoked such a reaction now. Now, more than ever before, when he needed Draco. “Of course not! I told you, I take my promises seriously. I only found out just now, when you came in.” He flushed, embarrassed. “How did you know, anyway? That I – I needed you?”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “You were calling out for me through the bond. I felt you tugging at it.”

Harry frowned. “Bond? I thought you said it was a curse.”

Draco shrugged. “I have, on occasion, been known to be wrong.” Harry began to smile, and Draco warned, “Don’t be smug. It’s not a bond in the traditional sense.”

Dumbledore turned. “Do you know something, Mr Malfoy?” he asked.

Draco’s head snapped around. “Not as much as _you_ , apparently,” he snarled.

“Draco –”

“No,” Draco hushed him, still staring Dumbledore down. “You said blood protection. I’m a Dark wizard. I _know_ about blood.”

Harry frowned, suddenly worried. “Does Voldemort?”

Draco shrugged, glancing at him. “Probably more than me. But about this? Dark Mages lose the ability to perform Light magic, and the kind of blood sacrifice you’re talking about is old, Light magic.” He touched Harry’s forehead, tracing the scar. Harry shivered. “The Blood Bond. Was it invoked, Headmaster?”

“It was,” Dumbledore said, simply. “To keep him safe, Mr Malfoy.”

“Until you could send him to his death?”

“I had no idea –”

“Really,” Draco said, his tone so dry that Dumbledore closed his mouth and waited, warily. “I always wondered why Potter lived with Muggles who so clearly neglected him.” Harry made a noise of protest, and Draco shushed him again. “I’m not blind, Harry. Even _I_ know Muggles don’t wear clothes three sizes too big for them. Not to mention the clear signs of malnourishment; difficult for anyone to miss, and I’ve spent a rather _indecent_ portion of the last six years watching you.”

Harry couldn’t help but smile at that.

“The Blood Bond only protects him while he’s in the house,” Draco said, to Dumbledore. “His mother’s sacrificial protection already ran in his veins; he could have been protected anywhere. Which leads me to believe that the Blood Bond was just an excuse, or at best, a bonus. By placing him with Muggles, you successfully limited his knowledge of his magical heritage, giving you a blank slate to work with. A boy whose self-worth was so low he’d eagerly lap up any attention you gave him, eagerly lap up your praise for his huge bloody saviour complex, so that when you finally told him the truth, he would go to his death _willingly_. Which means you _knew_ he was a Horcrux all along; probably from the day it happened, or it wouldn’t have mattered where he spent his childhood –”

“That’s enough!” Harry half-yelled, pulling away. “ _Enough_ , Draco!”

Draco fell silent obediently.

Harry gasped in a breath, the thundering sound of his own heartbeat in his ears. Draco’s words rang like an accusation in the air between them.

“Is it true?” he asked.

Dumbledore sighed heavily. “Is it true I was aware your relatives were not, perhaps, the best people to raise a wizarding child? Yes, Harry. It is. But I also knew that Voldemort would return, some day, and I knew that invoking the Blood Bond was the best way to keep you safe.”

Harry stared down at his clenched fists. “How did you know Voldemort would return? I know people never quite believed he could be gone, but you knew, didn’t you? Draco’s right. You knew about the Horcruxes. You knew about me. Right from the beginning. Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

“When, Harry?” Dumbledore said. There were tears in his eyes again, but this time, Harry found himself wondering if they were real, or just another manipulation. “When was I supposed to tell you? When you were eleven years old, a tiny boy bewildered by this strange new world? Or fourteen, traumatised and in shock after Diggory’s death and Voldemort’s return? At _what age_ was I supposed to tell a young boy he was destined to die?”

There was a short silence.

Then Draco said, “At what age do you expect him to give his life?”

Harry whirled away. “It doesn’t matter,” he bit out. “Talking about it doesn’t change anything! I have to die, so the world can be rid of Voldemort. I’m prepared to make that sacrifice.”

“And what if I’m not prepared to _let_ you?” Draco hissed, but Harry just jerked the door open and walked out.

~*~

“Mr Malfoy,” Dumbledore said.

Draco stopped. Harry had disappeared down the staircase, but he thought they could probably both use some time to cool off. “The other Horcruxes,” he said, turning. “Have they been found yet? Destroyed?”

“Two only so far, and one of them at the cost of my own life,” Dumbledore replied. “I have ideas about where and what they might be, of course, and I have discussed them with Harry, who in turn has related them to Mr Weasley and Miss Granger. Apart from Severus, we five are the only ones who know of the Horcruxes. It must stay that way.”

“Are you going to Obliviate me?”

“No.” Dumbledore’s tone was wintry. “You have managed, somehow, to worm your way into Harry’s confidence, and I will respect that. But I must warn you, Mr Malfoy, not to interfere with what Harry must do.”

“I won’t let him walk to his death.”

“I’m afraid we have no choice,” Dumbledore said, and his masks seemed to slip very slightly, so that Draco suddenly had the impression of a very old and tired general, sending his men out to die and yet each death killing him a little inside.

He took a quick step back, blinking fast to shove the Headmaster _out_.

 _Merlin_. He had managed to pierce Draco’s shattered Occlumency shields, again. The endless months of taking the potions had taken its toll on Draco’s body and mind, but he was used to fighting through the pain and exhaustion. Now it was as if that burden had been lifted, and he felt better than he had in a very, very long time. Rebuilding his shields suddenly seemed like a possibility. And realising just how badly he’d let them deteriorate terrified him.

He had to fix that, before they left.

“The prophecy,” Dumbledore said. “Have you ever heard it?”

Draco shook his head.

“Of course not,” Dumbledore murmured, as if to himself. “It speaks of a child who alone would have the power to defeat the Dark Lord. Because the Dark Lord would mark him as his equal, and from then on, the exact quote is, ‘either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives’.”

“Neither can –” Draco frowned. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“On the contrary. The Horcrux inside Harry means that Lord Voldemort cannot die while he lives. And when he took Harry’s blood for his ritual, at the end of the Triwizard Tournament, he unintentionally linked Harry’s life to his own, the result being that Harry cannot truly die either, while Voldemort is alive. Or rather, that he will have the _choice_ whether to accept or reject death at Voldemort’s hand.”

Draco swallowed. “Have you told him this?”

“Absolutely not,” Dumbledore said, sharply. “There is a chance, now, for Harry to come back from beyond the veil. But only if he gives his life willingly, and only if it is Voldemort who strikes the killing blow. His sacrifice achieves nothing if he has knowledge of an escape clause.”

Draco stared at him. “An escape clause?” he repeated, acidly. “That he has to _die_ in order to take?”

“As the prophecy says.”

Draco stared at him. He’d always known Dumbledore was a cold, calculating bastard. Harry knew it too; he’d acknowledged it openly, in fact. But despite that, and as incomprehensible as it seemed, Harry had always trusted the Headmaster to do the right thing by him. The _betrayal_ of that trust, and just how deep it went...

And still Harry had yet to plumb the depths of it. It made Draco sick.

“No,” he said. “The prophecy says neither can _live_ while the other survives. Your interpretation seems to be that neither can die while the other survives. You might have gotten away with it, too, but not now. Harry won’t die, not on my watch.”

“Not even if there is a way for him to return from the dead, Mr Malfoy?” Dumbledore asked. “Not even if it means the end of the Dark Lord forever? I once thought it was possible that Harry was meant to die at Voldemort’s hand, and that it would fall to others to find the other Horcruxes and bring about Voldemort’s demise. Perhaps Severus and I. But I believe now that the prophecy indicates Harry has a far greater role to play. That he _will_ return, and strike the final blow.”

Draco remembered the paths where Harry had died, and yet the Dark Lord had still been defeated, in the end.

He scowled. “Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said? He won’t return from anywhere! Because I won’t let him die, do you hear? I will _find another way_!”


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for your comments and kudos! Warning for canon-typical torture in this chapter (i.e. the cruciatus curse).

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

**THE JUDAS KISS**

_Juxtaposed, these kings_  
 _the anointed boy, a new shepherd_  
 _and the jaundiced puppet_  
 _playing their parts_  
 _dancing it would seem_  
 _to very different tunes_  
~ Raymond A. Foss

The sun was setting over Malfoy Manor, painting the grounds with brilliant hues of red and orange. Harry sat shoulder-to-shoulder with Draco, watching the sunset, and wondering if it was the last one he’d ever see.

“Tell me about the bond?” he asked, quietly. Draco glanced over at the other members of their team, but only Ron and Hermione were close enough to hear. Despite Molly’s vociferous objections, both had insisted on being part of the team. Harry waved his wand, casting an Imperturbable around them. “It’s okay. I tell them everything,” he said.

Draco arched an eyebrow. “Everything?”

Harry felt his ears warm. “Prat,” he said. “Not everything.”

“Not for lack of trying, though, believe me,” Hermione said, deadpan.

Ron choked, and Draco’s surprised expression turned into a smirk. “Oh? Careful, Granger. Unless, of course, you _want_ to give Weasley an aneurysm. Then, by all means, go ahead.”

Harry smiled. He remembered thinking, weeks ago, that Ron would probably have an aneurysm before this was all over. Of course, his so-called best friend might actually _deserve_ one now. He’d convinced Harry that Draco would never let himself fall in love, and that had made him careless with Draco’s heart.

But Ron had just been trying to help. Harry could hardly blame him for that.

“We don’t have much time,” he said.

Draco nodded, sobering. The sun was dipping below the horizon now. “I won’t be able to explain everything,” he warned.

“Better some than none at all,” Harry said.

“All right,” Draco said. “But first,” he hesitated, “you have to know that I didn’t keep this from you deliberately. It wasn’t that I didn’t trust you, at least to begin with. I just didn’t know. It was your magic that was acting up, and I was concerned that Madam Pomfrey was right, and you were stealing my magic somehow. Which is ironic, because in a way you always were.”

“You said that,” Harry recalled. “In the Room, when we were fighting the Death Eaters. You told me to channel your magic, just like when I made the rose bushes.”

“The rose bushes were a bit different,” Draco said. “But essentially, yes. Except that it wasn’t my magic you used, either time. It was the Wild Magic, channelled through me.”

“That’s not possible,” Ron said.

“Not usually, no,” Draco agreed. “There is only one kind of Mage in the world who could achieve such a feat.”

Harry frowned. That word kept cropping up recently, especially in relation to – oh, _fuck_ no. “You said Voldemort was a Mage!”

“He is,” Hermione said, eager as always to impart her knowledge. “Ron explained this to me the other day. There are two types of Mages. Those who train for decades to master a particular branch of magic, like Voldemort – he’s a trained Dark Mage – and then those who are born with an affinity for one of those branches of magic. They’re known as True Mages, or Natural-borns, like Cassandra Trelawney, Professor Trelawney’s great-grandmother. They don’t require any formal training to master their magic; it just comes naturally. But,” she frowned at Draco, “Harry didn’t manifest as a child, and he hasn’t had any kind of Mage training. So he can’t be a Mage. Right?”

“Harry is Natural-born,” Draco said. “We both are.”

Ron scoffed. “Come off it, Malfoy. You and I both know how rare Natural-born Mages are. Two in one generation, at the same school, in the same _year_? And neither of you manifested as infants? How likely is that?”

“As likely as Apparating through Anti-Apparition wards, or healing curse scars?” Draco pointed out. “We are Mages, Weasley; White Mages, specifically. Literally, Children of the Wild Magic, born with an affinity for fire, water, earth or air. You can’t train someone to use elemental magic, which makes us different from any other kind of Mage. So yes, we are impossibly rare.”

“But that’s mad!” Ron protested. “You can’t just _use_ elemental magic. You need runes and at least five people, to channel the magic. That much raw, wild power, surging through the pathways of magic in one person… it would _kill_ you.”

Harry frowned. _Raw, wild power_. That was a perfect description of their magic, however unintentional. But then, Ron didn’t know. How could he? He’d never felt it.

“I’ve never heard of White Mages,” Hermione agreed, doubtfully. “And I searched Hogwarts’ library _and_ the Oxford Owl-Order lists for references to Mages.”

Draco made a vaguely apologetic gesture. “They were identified and named by my ancestor, Jeremiah Malfoy, in 1794. It was the culmination of his life’s work on the subject: _The Theory of White Mages: Mad and Dangerous, or Just Misunderstood?_ There is only one copy, and it remains in the Malfoy library to this day. Jeremiah was an avid historian, and his fascination with an ancestor of ours, one Elizabeth de Malfoi, was what led him to the discovery of White Mages.”

“De Malfoi?” Harry echoed, wrinkling his nose.

Draco smiled at him. “My French ancestors. Elizabeth was the granddaughter of Marotine de Malfoi, who built Malfoy Manor in the twelfth century. She was the eldest of five girls, and her father’s favourite. She stood to inherit everything when he died, but she became involved in an extramarital relationship with a farmhand named John Wexcombe, and her father threw her out. She was forced to flee to the continent with her lover. Jeremiah believed Wexcombe was also a White Mage. Their combined power was said to be great and terrible, and wherever they went, the people trembled before them.”

Harry’s heart sank. “Draco...”

“They also died saving thousands of people from a flood that would have destroyed half of southern France,” Draco interrupted, gently. “That’s the pattern. That’s how Jeremiah found each pair; historical evidence of others like John and Elizabeth, who were driven out of their homes and villages out of fear and prejudice, but did something great, and good, usually at the cost of their own lives. He even found evidence to suggest that Merlin himself was a White Mage.”

“Oh, now I know you’re having us on!” Ron protested. “Either that, or your ancestor was a complete nutter!”

“ _Ronald_ ,” Hermione hissed, kicking him. “We’re trying to be friends, remember?”

Ron grimaced, rubbing his shin. He muttered a reluctant apology.

Draco shrugged. “Jeremiah was considered somewhat eccentric, admittedly. Still, I believe he had a point. Merlin was the most powerful wizard of his time; powerful and benevolent. And yet he struggled his entire life with the peoples’ fear of his great power. I believe that’s why Jeremiah named us White Mages. His attempt to counter that unmerited reputation.”

“But you say he never published his research?” Hermione asked, frowning.

Draco shook his head. “His sons convinced him to keep it in the family.”

Hermione looked outraged. “So you’re saying these ‘White Mages’ were never formally studied because the Malfoys kept Jeremiah’s work to themselves?”

“Yes,” Draco said. “His sons hoped to harness the power White Mages represented for themselves. They thought that if one White Mage had been born into our line, another might be again, in the future. They developed spells to detect a White Mage at birth, and over the centuries, the spells were re-worked and refined by subsequent Malfoys.” He paused. “When I was born, my father thought we’d finally succeeded. Unfortunately, my accidental magic was no different from any other wizarding child’s, growing up, and he was forced to conclude that the spells our ancestors had developed were faulty.”

“But they weren’t?” Harry guessed.

“It seems not,” Draco agreed.

“But why are there always two?” Hermione asked. “If White Mages are as rare as you say –”

“Nature is all about balance; symbiosis,” Draco explained. “And we are born of nature. Always in pairs, maintaining the balance of the elements. Dark and Light. Earth,” he touched his stomach, then Harry’s chest, over his heart, “and Air.”

“Our magical cores,” Harry remembered.

“Exactly,” Draco said, smiling. “Always born within mere months of each other, into a time of crisis, for a reason. A destiny.” His grey eyes shone in the twilight, and Harry had the sudden urge to kiss him.

It was a nice thought. That he had been born for something more than becoming a killer, or dying so that a killer could be killed. That he belonged to something special. That he _belonged_.

“Jeremiah wrote extensively about the link he believed existed between such pairs,” Draco continued. “He theorised that it was this connection that allows us access to the Wild Magic itself. I think that’s why neither of us manifested as children. It is only through the formation and acceptance of the bond that we can fully access our individual elements, and the abilities that come with them. It’s been a long time since I read Jeremiah’s book, and I had little interest in it at the time. But I do remember that he believed Air Mages had the ability to manipulate wards. Like, for example, Anti-Apparition wards.”

“Oh,” Harry said.

“So it _is_ a bond!” Hermione said, in triumph. “But… the laws of magic –”

“The pathways between our magic formed when we met,” Draco said. “Madam Pomfrey was right about that. But the bond didn’t settle until that day in the courtroom, when I caused the earthquake. It was then that we both accepted the bond, and allowed the touch of another soul to our own, binding our magic irrevocably.”

“Soul magic?” Ron said, in an odd tone.

“But you didn’t _know_ ,” Hermione said, obviously frustrated.

“I think we did,” Harry corrected. “We just… didn’t know.” He wrinkled his nose. “Isn’t that cheating, a bit?”

Draco shrugged. “The Wild Magic is a law unto itself. Even after we allowed the bond to settle, it didn’t allow true access to its power until – well, until I accepted what I was. When you do, too –” he gripped Harry’s hand tightly, “what we’ve done so far, separately, will _pale_ in comparison to what we will be able to do together.”

Harry considered that. It was a little unnerving. “What did you mean, I was channelling the Wild Magic through you?”

Draco hesitated. “That’s complicated. I’m not sure I understand it myself. I believe the pathways Madam Pomfrey spoke of link me directly to the Earth. I can call on it, and draw out as much magic as I want. You, however, seem to access Air Magic _through_ me. When you draw on that conduit, I automatically ground myself in the Earth, and you can take as much as you need, and it will never drain me, because it’s not my magic you’re taking, it’s the Wild Magic.”

“Oh,” Hermione breathed. “So _that’s_ why Madam Pomfrey couldn’t understand the readings she took, the day you Apparated through Hogwarts’ wards.” She looked annoyed. “Madam Pomfrey and I spent hours researching that! You must have known, at least when you took those diagnostic potions –”

“I suspected, when Madam Pomfrey explained our magical cores,” Draco admitted. “It was too much of a coincidence to ignore. But I didn’t seriously think it could be true. Not until yesterday, when she told us the bond formed spontaneously, six years ago.”

“You said you still thought it was a curse, then,” Hermione said, indignantly.

Harry smiled. “He hadn’t decided yet. Whether to trust me or not.”

“It was never a choice, in the end,” Draco murmured.

Harry felt warmth blossom in his chest. “Why were the roses different?” he asked.

Draco hesitated. “Again, I’m only postulating. But do you remember what you said to me, after? That the magic _wanted_ to grow the roses? I think, as an Air Mage, you must have the ability not only to draw Air Magic through me, but to draw on the Earth Magic I’ve already tapped into. In the Room of Requirement, when I couldn’t focus enough to use the Wild Magic building up in me, you took it from me, and used it. Used _my_ Earth Magic.”

“That’s insane,” Ron muttered. “Do you even hear how insane that is, Malfoy?”

“It’s just a guess,” Draco said. He shrugged. “And yet.”

 _And yet_ , Harry thought. It explained so much. Things he’d brushed off at the time because of how little sense they’d made. How wandless and non-verbal magic had suddenly become so much easier. That violent gust of wind in Hogsmeade that had shoved everyone back, when Justin had attacked Draco. How they’d practically flown down the hall to the Room of Requirement, the wind at their backs, when the Death Eaters invaded Hogwarts. How he’d called Draco to him, in Dumbledore’s office.

And Draco’s magic. That shield of stones in the Room of Requirement. The earthquake. And –

“The birds,” he realised.

“Of course!” Hermione said. “That would explain your reaction to their deaths, Malfoy. Earth Magic is not just in the earth, after all. It’s in everything that grows out of it and nests in it; the trees, the animals, the birds. If you really are an Earth Mage, the death of any animal you felt attached to or responsible for in some way, could theoretically take a terrible toll on you.”

Draco breathed out, slowly. “I never thought of that.”

Harry shook his head, amused. Draco Malfoy, Dark wizard, Death Eater, Ice Prince… and cuddly animal lover? He tried to smother a snort, and ended up coughing. “So,” he said, “we’re White Mages. And we have some kind of great ‘destiny’ together? Defeating Voldemort?”

“No,” Draco said.

Harry blinked. “No?” he said. “The most powerful Dark Lord in modern history, and you _don’t_ think it’s our destiny to defeat him?”

“No,” Draco said, again. He looked stubborn. “John and Elizabeth died achieving their destiny. We are not going to die, Harry. Not tonight, not in this war. Our destiny is something far greater than this. I can feel it.”

Oh. _Oh_. There was a hard lump in Harry’s throat. He shifted to his knees, taking Draco’s face between his hands and kissing him firmly. “I won’t let you die,” he vowed. “Whatever happens to me, if it’s the last thing I do, I will keep you safe.”

Draco frowned at him. “You’re not going to die, either. You’re going to live, for our bond. For _us_. Do you understand? Just like you promised. You’re not going to back out of it just because Dumbledore told you death was the only way –”

“Draco,” Harry warned.

“No,” Draco said, louder. “No, I think your friends deserve to know that you don’t, actually, ‘tell them everything’. You’re lying to them now, if only by omission. They don’t know you’re a Horcrux, do they? They don’t know you intend to _die_ rather than find another solution. Do they?”

Ron’s mouth fell open, and Hermione gasped.

“Well, they do now!” Harry said, pulling roughly out of Draco’s grasp. “Bloody hell, Malfoy! Who the fuck do you think you are?”

Draco flinched back, hurt filling his face. “Harry –”

“You’re a _Horcrux_?” Hermione said, hand over her mouth. Even in the encroaching darkness, Harry could see the tears starting to her eyes. “Oh, Harry. Oh Morgana, _no_.”

And then Kingsley stepped through their ward. “It’s time,” he said.

Harry leapt to his feet, but Ron caught his arm. “Harry, mate,” he said, quietly. Harry looked at him reluctantly. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t, yeah?”

Harry calmed a little. “Yeah.”

“See you on the other side?”

“I’m not making any promises,” Harry said, glancing back at Draco and Hermione. Their faces were pale in the darkness. “I’m sorry, I can’t. But I’ll do my best.”

~*~

The Malfoy lodestones were located just outside the northern boundary of the property, hidden in Salisbury Forest, and protected by even more wards than the Manor itself. Draco slit his palm diagonally with his wand, letting his blood drip onto the earth as he whispered the spells that would allow him access to the wards.

He wondered if the Wild Magic would do this for him, if he asked. The Earth was singing to him, even now; it was powerful, here. But his ability to tap into it was blocked. Almost as if – as if Harry’s anger was _stopping_ him somehow.

Draco sighed, and finished another series of incantations, tunnelling a safe route through the wards. They had decided to split into two teams. They would only have one chance at this. His mother had been in her bedroom in Cardosa’s Pensieve memory, but Cardosa had staged that memory, deliberately. So one team would be searching the dungeons, just in case, while his team tried to get to her quarters in the east wing.

He opened his eyes. “It’s done.”

“The incantation?” Lupin said.

“ _Iter para tutum_ ,” Draco said. He demonstrated the wand movement, and then waited while everyone practiced. “The path splits in the rose garden. One leads to a secret passage into the dungeons, the other to the kitchen door in the east wing. It’s the closest entrance to my mother’s chambers. The spell will show you the way in and out, if you get separated. Don’t stray from the path, or you’ll set off the runes. Or worse.”

“Worse?” Arthur Weasley said, uneasily.

“Some wards simply throw intruders off the property,” Draco said. “Others will rip you limb from limb, or tear your head off. It depends on the era they were laid down.”

“That’s illegal,” Moody growled.

“Not in the time they were created,” Draco retorted, less than impressed. “Blood magic was only outlawed by the Ministry in the last fifty years, as I’m sure you’re aware. And blood wards cannot be broken except with the end of the line, as I’m also sure you’re aware. Hogwarts itself is protected by blood wards. We cannot be penalised for something entirely out of our control.”

Moody grunted, and his magical eye spun in irritation, but he said no more.

Draco stood. “Follow me, and stay close,” he said, and cast the Safe Passage Charm. It would not hide them from the naked eye, so they all wore Disillusionment Charms. Harry had his Invisibility Cloak tucked away in a pocket.

In the rose garden, their party split in two. Weasley and Granger went with the team to the dungeons, while Harry and Draco followed Lupin and Tonks to the kitchen door. Draco didn’t miss the looks Harry’s friends gave him as they parted, and he wondered if their silent entreaties would succeed where he, apparently, had not.

“I’m sorry,” Harry whispered, as they slipped into the kitchen. The house-elves were always in their own quarters by this time of night, and Draco had no fear there would be one lurking about to take them unawares. Malfoy elves were far better trained than that.

“Now’s not the time, Potter,” he said.

Harry sighed. “I know,” he said, “but I am sorry.”

“Shh,” Lupin warned. He opened the kitchen door a crack, and peered through. “Let’s go.”

The Manor’s halls were as dark and silent as a tomb, and it made Draco’s skin crawl. It had been like this ever since the Dark Lord and his minions had taken up residence in Malfoy Manor, as if the very life had been sucked out of his home.

He guided them through the maze of halls and staircases without hesitation; he knew every step, every creaky floorboard, every portrait, every secret passage.

They made it almost all the way to his mother’s quarters before he heard footsteps. Tonks made a startled squeak and almost tripped; Harry stopped her fall with his hand thrust out, lips motionless. They all froze, for endless seconds, but there was nothing else.

Harry set Tonks back upright, and Draco smiled at him, despite the urgency growing in the pit of his stomach. “You’re more powerful than any of us, even without your Mage abilities,” he murmured. “Even without _me_.”

Harry reached out to him, brushing his fingers over Draco’s arm. His eyes were dark, in the way Draco knew meant he wanted to kiss him. “You’re everything to me.”

“Now’s –”

“– not the time,” Harry finished. “I know.”

“Just around this corner,” Draco said, and they all followed him.

There were two Death Eaters standing guard outside his mother’s rooms. Draco raised his wand, but his three companions were faster, shooting off spells to stun and disarm. The Death Eaters fell so quickly and silently, they didn’t even have time to cry out.

But then someone tripped an alarm. A shrieking, wailing sound split the air.

 _Caterwauling Charm_ , Draco thought, already barrelling forward. But it was too late. The door opened, and Death Eaters began pouring out of his mother’s room, one after another. Too many to fight.

“Watch out!” Draco cried, spinning to the side. He slammed his hand down on a panel. With a screech of grinding stone, walls shot up around his team members, trapping them.

Draco took a deep breath in the sudden silence. Then he turned to face his fellow Death Eaters.

~*~

“Creepy,” Ron said, hunching his shoulders. “Do you think there are spiders?”

“Bound to be!” Moody said, with a kind of cheerful grimness, and followed Arthur and Kingsley into the gaping maw of Malfoy’s secret passage.

Ron sighed. “Does he have to be so bloody happy about it?”

Hermione patted his arm. “I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. Can you really imagine the Malfoys allowing spiders to sully their pristine home? They probably have wards specifically to keep them out.”

Ron grinned. “Yeah, you’re right. Thanks.” They ducked inside, and Hermione closed the stone wall behind them. The passage was wide enough to walk side-by-side, but it was cold and damp, and he hunched his shoulders even more. “D’you think Harry’s going to do something stupid?”

“He won’t,” Hermione said confidently, but the line between her brows gave her away. She was as worried as he was, and Ron felt his sense of foreboding grow.

“What if –?” he began, then yelped as Moody’s craggy face loomed in front of them.

“ _SHH!_ ”

“Sorry!” he gasped, tightening his grip on his wand. They had reached the end of the passage, and his father and Kingsley Shacklebolt had their heads together, conferring in urgent whispers.

“All right,” Kingsley said, at last, turning. “Ron and Hermione, you’re in charge of finding Mrs Malfoy and getting her out, if she’s here. Don’t wait for us, and above all do _not_ engage any Death Eaters who happen to be down here. Keep yourselves safe, but let us do the fighting. All right?”

They nodded silently.

Moody tapped his wand against the blank stone. A door appeared, and slid open silently.

Ron braced himself, but there were no immediate shouts of discovery. They filed through the door quietly, and found themselves in a huge, dark room. It was so big that Ron couldn’t see the ceiling above them, nor the other end of the room. What he _could_ see were rows and rows of great ugly cages.

“Bloody hell,” he breathed.

“Dark wizards,” Moody spat in disgust. Ron was inclined to agree.

They walked down one of the rows, and it wasn’t until they were almost at the other end before they finally came across a cell that wasn’t empty.

Ron’s mouth dropped open. “Ollivander?”

The old man looked up, and Ron was dismayed to see his face, gaunt and tired, deep creases around his eyes and mouth that spoke of pain and hunger. “What are you doing here?” he said, hoarsely. “He’ll kill you –”

“We’re going to get you out,” Kingsley said. He didn’t bother with the lock, which was so clearly booby-trapped that even Ron could see the menacing spark of magic. Instead, he severed the bars with a simple spell, making a hole big enough for Ollivander to walk through.

Ron gazed at him in admiration. He wasn’t sure he’d have thought of that. He moved forward to put his shoulder under Ollivander’s, supporting his weight. “I’ve got you,” he said.

Nearby cells were holding not only Mrs Malfoy, but Florean Fortescue, a blank-faced Muggle woman, and the five-year-old daughter of a high-ranking Wizengamot member. “You-Know-Who up to his old tricks again,” Moody grunted, as Kingsley hoisted the frightened little girl in his arms. Arthur had severed the bars of Narcissa’s cell and was working on her chains.

“Indeed,” Kingsley agreed, grimly. “I wondered why Biddle started pushing for that insane Muggleborn Registration Act of Umbridge’s last week.”

“Why did he take you, sir?” Hermione asked Florean Fortescue, helping the old ice-cream maker to his feet. “I’m so glad you’re all right. Everyone’s missed you! Diagon Alley just hasn’t been the same since you disappeared. Have you been here all this time?”

“Let the man talk, Hermione,” Arthur said, gently.

Hermione looked a little embarrassed, but Florean waved away her apology. “It’s nice to know I’ve been missed,” he assured her. He was just as sickly-looking as Ollivander, but stood straight and tall without Hermione’s assistance after only a few moments. “You-Know-Who has been questioning Garrick and I about wandlore. He is chasing the myth of the Elder wand.”

“The Elder wand?” Hermione echoed.

“It’s a children’s bedtime story,” Ron told her. And then, at Ollivander and Florean’s silence, he said, “Right? The Deathly Hallows aren’t real. Are they?”

“We’ll sort this out when we’re all out of here,” Kingsley said. “Hermione, watch out for the Muggle. Arthur, will you be all right with Mrs Malfoy?”

Ron glanced at his father, who was lifting Narcissa’s unconscious body in his arms. He winced. She looked half-dead. Horribly thin, as if she hadn’t eaten a proper meal all year, and the wounds on her body were seeping and infected. Ron couldn’t help but dread Malfoy’s reaction. If it was _his_ mum who looked like that...

A dreadful shrieking filled the air. They all jumped and whirled, wands up.

“Someone’s set off a Caterwauling Charm,” Moody said, tersely. “Quick, back the way we came –”

“What about –?” Hermione said, but Moody grabbed her, dragging her along.

“No time! Go!”

A red flash of light slammed into the wall beside them, sending mortar flying. Ron ducked, and stumbled.

“Go, _go_!” Kingsley shouted, shoving the little girl at Hermione. He turned to fight with Moody.

Ron checked for his father; made sure he went through the door with Mrs Malfoy first. He herded the others in behind him, kept his arm around Ollivander. Didn’t dare look back. They stumbled down the narrow passage, elbows banging against the rough walls, hands reaching out to help each other, the sound of battle behind them urging them forwards, faster, _faster_ –

They burst out into the cold, biting night air.

Ron did a quick head count. “Keep going!” He cast the spell Draco had shown them, to guide them through the wards. No one dared to cast _Lumos_.

Moody and Kingsley caught up with them in the rose garden. Kingsley was bleeding from a gash on his head, Moody’s arm hanging at an odd angle. There were no sounds of pursuit, but the Caterwauling Charm continued to shriek. They didn’t stop running until they made it to the rendezvous point.

Kingsley turned to Moody and began some rudimentary healing spells, while Ron helped Ollivander to sit. Mr Fortescue collapsed down next to him. The two old wizards leaned together, faces red and panting for breath.

“We did it,” Hermione said, out of breath herself. She set the little girl down and crouched to brush her hair back from her face. Ron glanced at them, troubled to see tears streaking down the child’s face. She’d been so quiet as they ran. “It’s okay, sweetie, it’s all over now,” Hermione said. She looked around. “Is everyone okay?”

Everyone called out confirmation, but Ron had already turned away. The shrieking wail of the Caterwauling Charm had been cut off at last, but there was no sign of Harry’s team. “Where are they?”

~*~

Moody wanted to launch an immediate rescue for the missing team. Kingsley vetoed that, insisting they couldn’t leave the prisoners to fend for themselves in the dark while they went back in. Moody suggested leaving them with Ron and Hermione, but Mr Weasley vetoed that as well.

Ron and Hermione weren’t given a vote, much to Ron’s disgust. Hermione was just grateful. Harry was trapped inside Voldemort’s stronghold, possibly fighting for his life, probably already captured. Every instinct she had was telling her to storm the Manor’s wards, right now. But she also knew, logically, that Arthur was right. They needed to regroup. Narcissa, in particular, needed urgent medical treatment, and they had an obligation to return the little girl to her father, as soon as possible.

But, more than that, they needed a plan. Voldemort wouldn’t be taken by surprise a second time.

Florean told them that the Muggle woman was from the neighbouring village of Pewsey, and was meant to have been Voldemort’s next victim at his regular Death Eater meetings. The woman had been enchanted to docility, and Kingsley gently Obliviated her before removing the enchantment and sending her on her way.

Hermione wished her own waking nightmares could be spelled away so easily.

They Apparated back to Hogsmeade, then borrowed broomsticks from the shadowy proprietor of the Hog’s Head to get back to Hogwarts as quickly as possible. Arthur hurried along on foot behind them with those who couldn’t fly; Ollivander, who was too weak to even get a leg over a broom, and Narcissa, levitated unconscious and feverish in front of them.

Hermione took the little girl on her own broom. She was obviously traumatised, blank-eyed and clinging to her robes, and Hermione tried not to think about what she had been through.

She didn’t let go of the child until Madam Pomfrey had Fire-called Gregory Biddle, and the man came stumbling through the Floo, dark circles under his eyes and his clothes hanging off him. He started crying when he saw his daughter.

“Daddy!” she cried, and struggled out of Hermione’s arms.

Mr Biddle collapsed to his knees, sweeping his daughter into his arms. “Tammy – Tammy, oh baby –” He began to sob into her hair, and Hermione blinked away tears of her own.

“She’ll be taken care of,” Madam Pomfrey assured her. Then Mr Weasley came through the door with his two charges, and she whirled into action, running diagnostic spells on Narcissa before she was even settled on a bed.

Hermione left them to it.

She ran, all the way to Dumbledore’s office, and found the Order already in the middle of a heated conversation. She burst into the room. “We have to go back for them!” she said, as every eye turned to her. “Do you have a plan? We have to leave now!”

“I am afraid that is simply impossible,” Dumbledore said.

She felt it like a blow to the chest. “ _S_ _ir_ –!”

“I am truly sorry, Miss Granger,” he said. “But your main advantage was the element of surprise. You know that. An assault on Malfoy Manor now would be tantamount to suicide.”

“He’s right, child,” Moody said, gruffly.

“I don’t care!” she cried. “I’ll volunteer! You can’t stop volunteers from going!”

“Me too,” Ron said, grimly.

Dumbledore sighed. “My dear children. Your love for and loyalty to your friend does you the _utmost_ credit. Please believe me when I say I would go with you myself, if I thought we had a chance. But I am afraid there is nothing we can do for them now, except to go on, and fight You-Know-Who in a different arena.”

“I am not happy about this move against Gregory Biddle,” Kingsley agreed. “Taking his daughter –”

Dumbledore looked grave. “He is becoming bolder. This attack on Hogwarts, his willingness to expose his spy within our ranks, his infiltration of the Ministry, just like last time –”

Hermione felt a chill go down her spine. _Last time_.

She’d read the history books, of course, and wheedled stories from some of the older Order members. Guerrilla attacks on innocent civilians, just like Justin's family. People who had gone out, never to be seen or heard from again. Safe houses, and bloody battlefields, with hundreds upon hundreds dead. The Inferi, striking terror into the hearts of all men. The dreadful fear that your friend, or family member, or colleague could be under _Imperius_ , and could turn on you at any moment.

Not even Hogwarts had been safe, in those last years.

It was little wonder that Fudge had been so reluctant to admit Voldemort was back. Not that it was an excuse for his blind idiocy, of course, or his vicious slur campaign against Harry, but – well, Hermione could sympathise with his fear, at least.

“Speaking of spies, Albus,” McGonagall said. “I think we’re all wondering the same thing.”

“Ah, yes,” Dumbledore sighed. “Severus. What I have told you all along is true. He is loyal to us, and his reason for that gives me absolute assurance. Young Mr Malfoy, however…”

“You think he may have betrayed us?” Kingsley said, frowning. “Set off that Caterwauling Charm deliberately?”

“Perhaps,” Dumbledore said. “And I will never be able to forgive myself if he did. When I penetrated his Occlumency shields yesterday, I believed, foolishly, that he had shown me all I needed to know. That his love for his mother, and Harry, would keep him loyal to us. But if You-Know-Who has a better offer –”

“Then we’ve delivered Potter right into the lion’s den,” Moody muttered. “Dammit to the seven hells and back, Albus! I _said_ the boy couldn’t be trusted, didn’t I? Why didn’t you at least stop Potter from going?!”

“He insisted on protecting Mr Malfoy,” Dumbledore said. “And to be frank, Mr Malfoy’s performance was very convincing. I am ashamed to say it, but I really did believe he cared for Harry.”

“Ha!” Moody muttered.

Molly said tearfully, “He’s just a boy, Albus –”

“We must have faith in him,” Dumbledore told her. “Harry has faced You-Know-Who four times now, and survived each time. And he is not alone, this time. Nymphadora and Remus are with him. We must hope for the best, or we will tear ourselves apart. The war has just barely begun.”

“And Snape?” Kingsley said.

“He must remain in Auror custody for the time being,” Dumbledore said. “He failed to carry out his order to kill me if Mr Malfoy could not, and Mr Malfoy was clearly suspicious. If he was the one who betrayed us, he will have told his master of those suspicions. But if we can place any doubt at all in You-Know-Who’s mind, we must. It is possible he will accept Severus back into his ranks at some future date, which means we must behave for now as if he really tried to kill me.”

“Which he did,” Kingsley said. “Right?”

“That’s what I don’t understand, Albus,” McGonagall said. “Why in the world would you _ask_ him to kill you?”

Hermione tuned them out, then. She wasn’t interested in Dumbledore’s justifications. She’d already heard that part of the story from Harry. She met Ron’s eyes instead, and was pleased to see his thoughts echoing her own. They edged towards the door and slipped through, and no one noticed except Dumbledore, who just smiled and turned back to the conversation.

~*~

It was dank and cold in the Malfoy dungeons.

Harry hung limply in his chains, shivering, goosebumps rising on his naked skin. The sharp edges of the cuffs were digging cruelly into his wrists, and he could feel blood slipping down his arms, slick and warm. Cardosa prowled around him, running the tip of his wand down Harry’s spine. He stopped at the base of his spine, and drew it sideways, pausing over the not-quite-healed injury from the shrapnel.

Harry flinched, and Cardosa said, “ _Crucio_.”

Harry arched his back, and screamed, and screamed. Agony was radiating out from his injury, down every single nerve, until he couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, every second an eternity. All he knew, all he _was_ , everything was _pain –_

He slumped in his chains when it was over, his body jerking and twitching spasmodically. The cessation of pain was such a relief that he almost didn’t mind the loss of control over his own body.

“So pretty when you cry,” said a voice in his ear. An intimately, achingly familiar voice, and Harry was turning his head towards the source before he’d even registered the words.

“Draco,” he whispered, his voice hoarse and cracked. He looked around for Cardosa, and saw him lying on the ground, not far away. He relaxed, sobbing softly in relief. “Draco,” he said, struggling to get his feet under him. “Get me out of these.”

Draco smiled, cupping his jaw tenderly. “Harry,” he murmured. “My Harry. Cry for _me_ , Harry.”

And then he leaned in and kissed him, whispering _Crucio_ against his lips, and Harry’s world tore itself apart.

~*~

When he woke, it was to the sound of Voldemort’s low, sibilant hisses.

His arms were screaming in agony, but he stayed very still, hanging limp by his wrists in the vain hope of delaying the inevitable moment when someone realised he was awake.

“You played your part well, Master Malfoy,” Voldemort said, from somewhere nearby. “I cannot even begrudge you your mother’s freedom; you played one side off the other in a way even I must respect.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

 _Draco_. Harry opened his eyes a slit, trying to understand. Cardosa still lay on the ground in his cell, but he was alive; his chest moved up and down, relaxed. Draco had just Stupefied him, then.

“I even admire your skill with torture,” Voldemort mused. Harry caught a glimpse of him, moving into his line of sight, and he closed his eyes again quickly, praying that he hadn’t been seen. “Your Cruciatus Curse is powerful. Two minutes before he was completely comatose. It seems dear Lucius was not as useless as I had come to believe. Or do you credit your _talents_ to some other source? Certainly I had not realised you had the ability to fool Albus Dumbledore. Tell me, how did you convince him to let you bring Potter on this ‘rescue mission’?”

“It was not difficult, my lord,” Draco said, and Harry gritted his teeth at the cringing, subservient tone. “Dumbledore penetrated my shields last week. I broke eye contact immediately, but he knew it was possible. I used that to my advantage yesterday; allowed him through my shields, and then projected such terror at him that he had no choice but to believe I feared him. Not to mention my… _concern_ for Potter, of course.”

Voldemort’s laugh was chilling. “Of course. And now I have granted your mother her freedom, and my clemency, will you pledge yourself again to me, as your father did before you?”

“I will, my lord,” Draco said, simply. “It would be my honour and privilege.”

“I am still displeased, of course,” Voldemort said, and his voice was suddenly much closer.

Harry almost jerked in surprise. His heart rate accelerated until it felt like it might beat right out of his chest. Voldemort was _inside his cell_ now, and Harry was fucking terrified out of his mind.

He tried to breathe, to calm down. He’d accepted that he had to die. It wasn’t likely to be a quick, painless death, he knew that. But he could take comfort that one of Voldemort’s Horcruxes would die with him, at least. So why was he so scared? Had he really bought into the titles the wizarding world had forced on him: Chosen One, Saviour? Did some deep, selfish part of him think that his death should be more important than this? That being ‘destroyed’ like some inanimate object, like his life had no more meaning than a diary or a ring, was somehow _beneath_ him?

Maybe he owed Dumbledore an apology.

“... several of my other prisoners held significant value to me,” Voldemort was saying. “And more importantly, your failure to kill Dumbledore.”

“Yes, my lord,” Draco said. “I apologise, my lord. I didn’t count on Pansy being there. I sent her off, out of the way, but I underestimated Gibbon’s ability to keep her busy.”

“Ah, yes.” Voldemort sighed. “The traitorous Miss Parkinson. I must confess to being disappointed. I would not have thought her capable of such treachery, but clearly her mother corrupted her long before I got to her. Working against me to turn you. It’s almost tragic.”

“She was my best friend, my lord,” Draco said, quietly.

“Tragic indeed, then,” Voldemort said, sounding amused.

A dry, bony hand touched Harry’s back. He flinched away instinctively, yelping in pain as the muscles in his arms protested. And then, as if his nerves had come alive again, every inch of him contracted in a terrible aftershock of the Cruciatus Curse.

He screamed.

The pain subsided after a moment, but it left him shivering uncontrollably. He struggled to get his feet under him, to take the strain off his arms, but even that small movement had tears squeezing out of the corners of his eyes. His nerves felt so hypersensitive that the brush of air as Voldemort circled him had him jerking violently away.

Voldemort laughed. “Master Malfoy,” he said, “why don’t you tell Potter who first roused your suspicions about the vaunted Miss Parkinson?”

He felt fingers under his chin, tilting it up, and he opened bleary eyes to see Draco. His breath caught at the sight of that familiar, beloved face. It was cold and expressionless.

A few weeks ago, Harry might have expected a betrayal like this. But not now. Not when he’d held Draco through his tears, kissed away his night terrors, shared his magic. Not now Draco had defected. He _had_ defected, right? But… he’d let the Death Eaters into Hogwarts. What if it had been a deliberate ploy, to kill Dumbledore, and then lure Harry into going on this rescue mission?

He had to know. Because maybe if he could just understand, he wouldn’t be so afraid to die.

“Why?” he whispered.

Draco’s expression didn’t change, but Harry fancied he could see regret in his eyes. “I failed to complete the task I was given, Potter. My duty is to my lord. I couldn’t kill Dumbledore, but fortunately, you provided me with a backup. You. In exchange for my mother.”

“How does it feel, Potter?” Voldemort said, jubilantly. “To have failed to save your _dear_ Draco? To have been the instrument not only of your own downfall, but his friend’s as well?”

Harry looked between them, confused.

“Pansy,” Draco said flatly, stepping back. “You called her by her given name, at the trial. She didn’t even notice. I tested her that night; told her I was in love with you. She betrayed herself. She wanted me to take _advantage_ of your offer, as if committing treason against our lord could ever be an option. I knew what I had to do, after that. It was almost too easy, manipulating you both to this point.”

Harry stared at him in disbelief. “She wanted you safe, Draco, that’s all,” he whispered. “What have you done?”

Draco stiffened, and his lip curled. He looked every inch the proud, haughty pureblood again, just like his father. “What I had to,” he replied. “I told you right from the beginning. You just never listened. I’m a Death Eater. My loyalties never changed.”

Or maybe they had, Harry thought. He couldn’t quite believe it had _all_ been a lie. He _refused_ to believe that. But faced with the choice between Harry and his mother…

“And you have proved that admirably, young Malfoy,” Voldemort said. “I admit, I had my doubts, which is why I sent my Death Eaters to aid you. But I also did not expect you to offer a greater prize in lieu of Dumbledore. Not only valuable information about the Potter boy and his secrets, but Potter _himself_.” He shook out a long, flowing silver cloak, and Harry sucked in a sharp breath. “Once you have served your punishment, young Malfoy,” Voldemort said, eyes glinting with pleasure, “you will also be rewarded. I am _very_ pleased.”

“I thought –” Harry couldn’t stop himself. He knew it was stupid, but this was all so fucked up. “You said you loved me –”

Draco whirled and slapped him across the face, hard. “Shut the fuck up!” he snarled. “You think I enjoyed whoring myself out to you? I’m sorry for the rest, but that – never, _ever_ that. The only reason I could stomach it was by thinking of this moment, when I’d be able to look you in the eye and know that you were seeing me, finally, for who I really am. And I am _not your whore_ , Potter. I am a Malfoy, and you will respect me.”

Harry stared at him, chest constricted, eyes stinging painfully.

Voldemort laughed again; a high-pitched sound that grated on Harry’s last nerve. “I do so wish I could watch you teach him that respect, young Malfoy, but I have waited too long already. It is time for Harry Potter to die.”

Draco bowed, low. A small smile appeared on his lips. “I may have a suggestion in that regard, my lord.”

Voldemort looked impatient. “What is it?”

“When Cardosa came to visit me in the Ministry, he mentioned the Dark Moon Ritual.”

“Indeed.” Voldemort glanced at Cardosa’s unconscious body. “An effective deterrent, I take it? Your fool of a father seemed quite convinced you were an Earth Mage.”

Draco shrugged. “I was always a disappointment to my father, my lord,” he said. “I’m sure he told you that I never manifested, despite his dearest hopes. Of course, the tests were positive, so it’s still possible. But I believe I have found you another for your ritual. One who has already manifested.”

Voldemort’s not-eyebrows rose, and he looked between them thoughtfully. “Potter is powerful, granted. But I have never seen evidence of the elemental power Lucius boasted of.”

“Your servants have, my lord,” Draco said. “I have been encouraging Potter to develop his power, ever since I discovered what he was. When we were ‘escaping’ the Room of Requirement, I convinced him to create a ward of Air Magic. It was the most powerful magic I have ever seen, and yet it took him almost no effort. Even the Unforgivables had no impact on it. They were deflected just like any other spell.”

The red eyes glinted again in Harry’s direction, and he swallowed, feeling terror claw at his throat. What was it Draco had said? _Any number of wizards can participate in the ritual, and from sunrise to sunset the next day, each one of them is gifted with a power greater than you can imagine. A single wizard could breach Hogwarts’ defences with a simple wave of his wand…_

“Is that so, indeed?” Voldemort said. “You have done well, Draco. A fitting end for our young hero, indeed. His death to bring about the end of his beloved Hogwarts and the wizarding world forever.”

Draco bowed again, his smile widening.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for your comments and kudos! Warning for not so canon-typical torture, this time.

**CHAPTER FOURTEEN**

**THE JUDAS KISS**

Part Two

“Torture him,” the Dark Lord said, and handed him a whip.

Draco stared down at it, a shudder of revulsion going through his body. It was the same whip he’d seen several times in the Infinity Mirror; Harry’s back a bloodied mess as Mirror-Draco swung it again and again, cruel and relentless. “My lord?”

“The Cruciatus Curse has its limitations,” the Dark Lord said. “It wouldn’t do to drive Potter mad before the new moon, now would it? Not that it would matter for the purposes of the ritual, of course, but I want the boy to _know_ what his death means. To know that he will be helping me to conquer the entirety of wizarding Britain in a single night.”

“No,” Harry rasped.

Draco could feel him reaching for the Wild Magic; trying to use that which had come so easily to him, in the Room of Requirement. But Draco had been open to him, then. And now, even if Draco allowed him access, Harry himself was inadvertently blocking their bond.

“And, of course,” the Dark Lord continued, gloating, “there is a certain satisfaction in using Muggle tools against our Muggle-loving enemies.”

Draco turned away before the Dark Lord saw the sneer he couldn’t quite suppress. That would just be tempting the Fates. “Thank you, my lord,” he said, raising the whip and cracking it through the air.

Harry flinched violently, and Draco swallowed. He stepped forward, stroking a hand down Harry’s side.

Harry jerked away from him.

“Scared, lover?” Draco mocked.

Voldemort laughed cruelly, and it was like nails raking down his spine. Draco leaned forward, pressing a kiss to Harry’s lips. Harry struggled, but he was too weak to break free, and the Dark Lord continued to laugh. It was difficult to tune him out, but Draco tried, concentrating on ripping through Harry’s pitiful mental defences. He could feel the turmoil in Harry’s soul; the pain, the fear, the agony of betrayal. And he soothed him, gentled him, sent him away to a place in his mind where he could lie on the earth and feel the sun against his skin, the warmth of the ground beneath his back.

Draco stepped back and let loose with the whip.

He wasn’t good at it. It was primitive, barbaric, and he was a _wizard_. But the Dark Lord was watching, and so Draco wielded the clumsy Muggle torture device, and didn’t feel anything as Harry grunted, teeth gritted, his body jerking. Didn’t feel anything as blood welled up from broken skin, and began to trickle down Harry’s legs. Didn’t feel anything when Harry began to scream.

Fortunately, even the sanctuary he’d created in Harry’s mind couldn’t keep him conscious for long, and he slumped in his chains, head lolling on his shoulder.

The Dark Lord sighed in disappointment.

Draco stepped back, breathing hard, fighting to control the adrenaline.

“I have work to attend to,” the Dark Lord said. “You may have free reign of the Manor, but I will not object if you wish to continue here. Just don’t kill him. The witch is in a cell further down; you may kill her instead. Your father tells me you need the practice.”

Draco bowed deeply. “Yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord. And the werewolf?”

The Dark Lord chuckled. “I am afraid you will have to be content with two playthings, Master Malfoy. It is more than any of my other Death Eaters have right now. Lupin cost me one of my greatest assets by killing Greyback. He belongs to me, now. Enjoy yourself. Pettigrew will let you out when you so desire.”

He swept out of the dungeons, and Draco heard the door at the top of the staircase clang shut.

He dropped the whip instantly, and rushed to Harry’s side. He couldn’t quite figure out where to put his hands. Harry’s wrists were raw and bloody from the shackles, and the clumsy, unskilled lashes from the whip curled around his sides to his chest, his stomach. Draco reached up to undo the chains, and found he couldn’t see them. His eyes had filled with tears, and his hands were shaking too badly to get a grip on the smooth metal. He struggled with the chains for a full minute before he remembered his wand.

Cursing himself for a fool, he cast a simple _Alohomora_ at the cuffs. Harry fell into his arms.

He lowered him gently, casting a quick cushioning charm so that Harry wasn’t lying on the hard ground. “Oh, Merlin.” His breath came in the deep sobs he’d been holding back for what seemed like forever _._ “Oh, Merlin, what have I done?”

Cardosa began to wake at last, and Draco cast another vicious Stunner at him. He didn’t have much time. The Dark Lord might have given every appearance of trusting him, but Draco knew that that was a dangerous illusion.

Outnumbered by the Dark Lord’s Death Eaters, he had bowed, and scraped, and laughed, presenting Harry, Tonks and Lupin up to his master eagerly, _hopefully_ , as if it had been his plan all along. He had endured multiple forays into his mind, employing every trick at his disposal to fool the Dark Lord’s Legilimency. He had prostrated himself before his master, pleading for clemency for failing to kill Dumbledore, for letting the Order into the Manor. He had explained why he’d done it: to bring Harry Potter to him, the only way he could without rousing Dumbledore’s suspicions, through a ‘rescue mission’ for his mother.

He had turned his own wand on Harry, at the Dark Lord’s command.

But the Dark Lord truly trusted no one, and the Order had snatched his _mother_ out from under his nose. Someone would be down, soon enough, to check on him.

Harry stirred, and Draco shot to his feet, heart pounding in his chest. He couldn’t let Harry see him now. He’d offered his heart and soul to Draco, treated him like a _prince_ , loved and cared for him like Draco had never imagined, even in his wildest dreams. And Draco had _betrayed_ that, utterly.

He waved his wand, and sent Harry back to sleep. Dashing a hand across his eyes, he stumbled out of the cell and ran down the row, searching frantically for the mop of purple-pink hair. “Tonks,” he gasped out, desperately relieved to find her conscious and unharmed.

She glared at him. “I heard _everything_ , you foul, evil little _bastard_ –”

“ _Recludo opscurus_ ,” Draco said. The lock on her cell popped open.

“– you can kill me now, but I swear by all that’s Magic, you’ll get what’s –” She stopped, and stared at the padlock lying on the ground. She looked up at him.

“It was an act,” Draco said. “I did the only thing I could think of to keep my wand and get us out of here.”

She looked suspicious. “You tortured Harry.”

“Yes,” Draco said. “And I don’t expect to be forgiven. But I won’t let the Dark Lord kill him.”

“All right,” Tonks said, and Draco thanked Merlin and all the Founders that she wasn’t the indecisive type. “I believe you. Let’s go.”

~*~

Ron and Hermione were in the process of explaining the situation to their friends when an irate Pansy Parkinson hammered on the Fat Lady’s portrait, demanding answers.

They had no choice but to tell her the truth. About the mission to Malfoy Manor, which she’d been excluded from, and the fact that Draco’s team had never made it back out. She insisted not only on joining them herself for the return mission, but bringing along her fellow Slytherins.

After Ron’s initial reaction (which had been along the lines of “oh, _hell_ no”), he’d warmed to the idea. Hermione and Dean were the only ones with their Apparition licences, and Malfoy Manor was days away by broom. Not to mention they’d need all the help they could get. Ron was certain Voldemort would be tightening security, at the very least. If it were him, he might even send out patrols of Death Eaters over the surrounding countryside, just to make sure there were no more breaches.

If anyone could get them inside the impregnable fortress that was the Manor, it would be Malfoy’s closest friends.

Indeed, as luck would have it, the Bulstrodes owned a large country cottage on the outskirts of the village Pewsey, situated on the River Avon. Bulstrode suggested her family’s barn as a safe Apparition point. They all snuck out of the castle separately, and made their way down to Hogwarts’ front gates.

Hermione managed four Side-Along Apparitions before she was too exhausted to continue, and then Pansy and Dean took over. Soon they were all there, in Bulstrode’s barn; two wary groups facing each other.

“Now what?” Ron asked.

“There’s probably an army out there, just waiting for us,” Dean said, eyeing the door.

“There’s _not_ ,” Seamus said, elbowing him.

“I trust Blaise,” Ginny agreed, clinging to her boyfriend’s arm. “He wouldn’t betray us. He almost died saving my life.”

Dean scowled, but fell silent.

“I meant what I said before,” Millicent said, looking around at them all. “The Dark Lord betrayed my cousin to a group of Order members during the first war, for failing to murder a group of Muggleborns found hiding in this very barn. My parents claimed no knowledge of them at the time, after Donny died, but the truth was that my parents were the ones hiding them. They were just too afraid to stand up to the Dark Lord directly. I won’t live that lie, not when I have a way out.”

“That’s very wise,” Luna said.

Millicent glanced down at her, startled. She smiled, colouring slightly. “Thanks, Lovegood.”

“We’re no threat to you,” Pansy said. “We’re loyal to Draco, and that means we’re loyal to Potter.”

Ron grimaced. That was kind of what he was afraid of. If Malfoy’s defection had been a ruse, chances were that some, if not all, of the Slytherins would turn back with him as soon as it was discovered. “How are we going to get inside, then?” he asked.

“There is one way,” Pansy said. “The Emerald Room. It was built in the sixteenth century, at the height of the persecution against wizarding-kind; the Burning Times. It could be used for sanctuary, or if necessary, as an escape. There’s a very old landscape painting that acts as a kind of portal between the room and an abandoned shed several miles from here. I think Draco will try to get to it, if he can.”

“Except that the portal can only be opened by a Malfoy,” Goyle pointed out.

“Uh,” Ron said. “Not to be critical, but that’s a definite flaw in the plan.”

Pansy held up a tiny glass vial, filled with a red, viscous fluid. “By Malfoy blood, actually.”

Seamus pulled a face. “I’m not sure I want to know where you got that,” he said.

She smiled at him. “It’s Narcissa’s. Madam Pomfrey assured me it was safe to take it, and she won’t mind, believe me. Not if it’s to save her son.”

Ron nodded briskly. “Right, then. What are we waiting for?”

~*~

The secret passage out of the Manor dungeons had been destroyed. The Dark Lord had physically caved it in, and warded it with so much repelling magic that Draco felt physically ill just looking at it.

The only other option was the staircase upstairs.

Pettigrew was guarding the door, just as the Dark Lord had said, along with two junior Death Eaters. Draco recognised them as Slytherins, just graduated last year. Tonks took them out in silent, deadly fashion, completely wandless, while Draco cast a spell that stole Pettigrew’s voice, and then tripped him up when he turned to run.

“ _Incarcerous_!” he whispered. “ _Levicorpus_.”

Pettigrew flew upside down, and hung in the air, squirming angrily. His mouth was open wide in his attempt to scream, but nothing emerged. Tonks patted him down, and drew her wand out of his pocket triumphantly.

“We don’t have long before the alarm is sounded,” she murmured. “Do you want me to take Harry?” Draco shook his head, shifting Harry’s weight in his arms. “At least cast a Feather-weight Charm on him, then,” she said, already moving. “You can’t run like that, and you can’t fight.”

“I’ll manage,” Draco said, flatly. “Left here.”

“You know where Remus is?”

Draco hesitated. “No. The Dark Lord’s taken a personal interest in him. He could be anywhere.”

Tonks was silent for a long moment. “Maybe we’ll come across wherever he’s being held on our way, then,” she said, bracingly.

Draco nodded. There was almost no hope of that, and they both knew it. But she was a trained Auror, and, apparently, part of Dumbledore’s infamous Order. She would do her duty and protect Harry, and that was all he could really care about right now. “Left here,” he repeated.

He took them on a circuitous route through the Manor, avoiding any of the major living areas where the Death Eaters were inclined to congregate.

They had a narrow escape with Selwyn and Travers just around the corner from his father’s study. They were toying with some fencing swords in the Hall of Mirrors, and Draco saw them too late. Tonks dragged him backwards, out of the hall. Draco collapsed back against the wall, panting. His arms were burning, and he struggled to keep Harry from slipping.

“Cast a Feather-weight Charm,” Tonks insisted, in a harsh whisper. “You’re not doing us any good by punishing yourself, Cousin.”

Draco frowned at her. “The Malfoys don’t recognise your family as blood, _Auror_.”

She raised her eyebrows at him in an expression that reminded him forcibly of his mother. Then she wriggled them, which was decidedly _not_ like his mother at all. She flicked her wand, and Harry suddenly became much lighter in his arms. “We need to get out of here, _my lord_ Malfoy.”

Draco grunted, settling Harry more comfortably against his chest. He could feel his robes sticking to his skin. Harry’s blood. “Thank you,” he said, his throat closing. “Cousin.”

She grinned, and Draco had to respect that kind of irrepressible humour in the face of such dreadful odds, even if it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Which way?”

He gestured back the way they’d come. The Hall of Mirrors was the fastest route to his father’s study, but there were many others.

Unfortunately, the Manor was full of the Dark Lord’s followers. Almost immediately, they came across a group of rough-around-the-edges young men growling at each other in one of the smaller antechambers. Werewolves, Draco realised, with a cold shiver. He had to take them up three staircases and through a maze of halls and older, disused rooms to avoid them.

They were close to his father’s study again when the alarm sounded.

Harry stirred at the noise, moaning, but Draco didn’t have time to send him back to sleep. Instead, they ran. Incredibly, they made it to the study door before they heard the shouts of pursuit.

“ _Go_!” Tonks gasped.

She whirled and flung up a shield. Three spells rebounded off it instantly. Draco cast a Stunner over his shoulder. There were three Death Eaters; one ducked, one threw up a shield of his own, and the third charged. Draco scrambled for the doorknob as Tonks threw herself at the Death Eater, apparently forgetting her wand entirely as they grappled.

The door opened just as he touched the knob.

Someone grabbed him, pulling him into the study. He cried out, struggling. Then people were pushing past him, and his vision was obscured by a cloud of bushy hair. He faltered, recognising the voice that belonged to that hair. “ _Harry_? Oh, Merlin, is he all right? Harry!”

Draco didn’t resist when Weasley took Harry from him.

“This way!” Granger said, and Draco followed them blindly.

He found himself in the small, hidden room behind his father’s bookcase. He frowned at the painting on the wall, suddenly aware that this was all wrong. The Emerald Room was his family’s best kept secret. How had Weasley and Granger –?

Someone grabbed his hand. “Draco,” Pansy said urgently, “just hold still, I have to –”

A line of fire tore down his palm. The one he’d cut, earlier in the night, to get them through the wards, and never healed. The one he’d used to wield the whip, because if Harry had to hurt, then he should too. He yelped, trying to pull away, and she was apologising and saying something unintelligible about _it wasn’t enough_.

“We don’t have time,” Blaise shouted. “The painting, Draco – put your hand on the bloody –”

“Time to go!” someone else yelled.

Suddenly the room was a lot more crowded, and there was the smell of blood and scorched wood clinging to robes. Draco thought, stupidly: _there’s been a battle here_. He let Pansy slam his hand against the landscape painting, and watched in detached interest as his blood was absorbed. Everything blurred and disappeared.

They arrived, moments later, in the small shed where he, Pansy, Crabbe and Goyle had spent many a summer’s day playing as children.

Overwhelmed, darkness crept in around the edges of his vision, and he knew no more.

~*~

Harry woke to chaos and panic. He struggled frantically to free himself from his chains. But they weren’t chains, they were arms, and Ron’s voice was in his ear, telling him that everything was okay, it was all okay, but it _wasn’t_ , how could it be – nothing would ever be okay again –

He wrenched himself out of Ron’s arms and fell, hard. Pain jolted through his knees and up his spine.

“Harry!”

“ _They’ve found us_!”

A loud crack split the air. Dean appeared, grabbed Crabbe’s arm and Disapparated again.

Harry looked around, trying to get his bearings. There was Luna, shooting spells out of a tiny window. Seamus and Millicent Bulstrode covering the door. Hermione Apparated in, and Ron yelled from somewhere behind him, “Take Harry – Hermione, take –!”

A hand grabbed his arm, and he was gripped by a terrible squeezing sensation. Side-Along Apparition. He’d forgotten what it was like. He hated it, _hated_ _it_. His head and chest felt like they were in a vice, being tightened and tightened until his eyes wanted to pop out of his skull, and it was ten times worse because his whole back _burned_ , like he was on fire.

They landed.

“Help him!” Hermione yelled. “I have to –” The _crack_ of her Disapparation drowned out the end of her sentence.

Harry was eased to the ground by multiple hands, and he tried not to scream as they jostled his wounds. He was being rescued, he understood that much. He didn’t want to draw attention to them. He looked around, and realised they were outside Hogwarts’ gates. Almost safe.

Then he noticed Draco, lying unconscious nearby. He was pale and still, white-blond hair feathered around his face like some kind of angel. _Fallen angel_ , Harry thought, his lips curling up into a snarl.

“What’s _he_ doing here?” It came out as a croak, barely intelligible.

“He helped you escape, Harry,” Ginny said, crouching beside him. She was cradling her ribs, face creased in pain, but her eyes were filled with concern. “Don’t you remember?”

Someone ripped off the outer layer of their robes and spread it over him. It was only then that Harry realised he was mostly naked. He clutched the robe and looked up at… Goyle. “Thanks,” he said, blankly.

Three loud _cracks_ split the air, making him startle.

Then Ron was lifting him again, grunting. His arms rubbed against Harry’s wounds. It was agony, and he couldn’t help himself, he opened his mouth to scream, but blessed darkness took him again. He surrendered to it willingly.

~*~

The next time Harry woke, it was to Draco’s screams.

It wasn’t the screams that had woken him, though. His scar was burning, worse than it ever had before. It was so bad that it almost completely overwhelmed the pain from his wounds or his seizing muscles, courtesy of the Cruciatus Curse.

Voldemort was _furious_.

“Harry, Harry!” Draco cried. He was rolling around on the bed next to him, right hand clamped over his left forearm, face wet with tears. Voldemort was obviously using the Mark to torture him. “Please, make it stop, oh Merlin make it stop, make it _stop_!”

Harry sat up. Every movement was fresh agony. “ _You_ ,” he croaked.

Madam Pomfrey bustled over, but he ignored her, sliding to the edge of the bed. His legs almost collapsed under him, but he grabbed hold of the side table, using it to take the couple of steps over to the next bed. He couldn’t think straight. His own fury was ricocheting through his connection to Voldemort, echoing back at him, doubling each time.

He wanted to _kill_ Draco.

Draco’s eyes snapped open. He threw himself backwards off his bed with a sharp cry. “Harry –!”

Madam Pomfrey’s wand flew up, catching him with a Levitation Charm. “Mr Malfoy!” she exclaimed.

He struggled against the spell, eyes wide and fixed on Harry. “No! Let me go!” he sobbed. “Oh Salazar, Harry, I’m sorry, I’m _so sorry_ –”

“Sorry?” Harry repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. It grated painfully through raw vocal cords. “You’re _sorry_?”

“Harry, I know you’re angry, you have every right, but this isn’t you! It isn’t you!”

“Maybe it is,” Harry said, coldly. He could feel darkness stealing in, filling his mind, and he wondered if the Horcrux was asserting itself at last. Maybe Harry Potter would die, here and now, and he would live on as nothing but a piece of Voldemort’s soul until another hero came along to fulfil the prophecy. Neville, perhaps. He didn’t much care. “Maybe I’m the kind of person who _kills_ those who betray them.”

Madam Pomfrey gasped. “Mr Potter!”

He lifted a hand. He could feel magic trembling in his palm, in the webs between his fingers, destructive and terrible. There was a storm rising in the air. Static crackled, lifting his hair.

“Harry!” Draco swayed, his face stark white. “You can’t! I’m not grounded, I can’t, not when – stop, _stop_! You’re _killing me_ –!” His voice rose to a shriek.

Someone tried to tackle Harry from behind. He flicked his finger, enclosing Ron in a cage of lightning. It wouldn’t hurt him, but it would keep him out of the way. Draco jerked, eyes rolling back in his head.

“Mr Potter, whatever you’re doing, stop it right now!”

“Harry!” Hermione cried. “You’re going to _kill_ him!”

That made him pause, and the red haze cleared a little. Draco dying as an indirect result of his magic was not what he wanted. No, what he wanted was to kill Draco himself. Maybe with his hands around his throat. _The Muggle way_ , just like that fucking whip.

Reluctantly, he let the magic dissipate. The lightning cage disappeared, and Ron landed on his feet. Draco fell, as if the only thing holding him up had been Harry’s anger.

Hermione lurched forward, taking his face between her hands. “Harry!” she said. Her eyes were brimming with tears. “Listen to me. Draco got you _out_. He got you out!”

Harry looked at her, and then at Draco. He was curled up on the ground, sobbing. “He lied to me, Hermione. He –” his voice broke, “k-kissed me, _laughed_ –”

“He got you out,” Hermione said again, helplessly, her tears overflowing. “Oh, honey. What _happened_?”

Harry took an unsteady step backwards, wrenching out of her grip. He couldn’t stand it. His scar was still burning, but the anger was gone. He felt empty without it, as if anger had been the only real emotion left inside him, and now – now there was just _nothing_. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I tortured him,” Draco said, his voice thick with tears. Harry flinched. It pulled at his wounds, but he barely felt it. “I told him – I implied – that I had exchanged his life for my mother’s freedom.”

Hermione sucked in a breath. “Oh. Oh, Harry, _no_. We rescued Narcissa. She was in the dungeons, after all.”

Harry looked at her. “There were guards on her door,” he said. “Death Eaters in her room.”

“Maybe for some other prisoner,” Ron told him, gently. “She was in the dungeons, mate.”

“Draco didn’t betray you,” Hermione said. “We got Narcissa out, and then we came back for you. But Draco had already rescued you. I’m not sure we would have managed to fight our way to you, if he hadn’t managed to free you first. He got you _out_.”

Harry sat down, hard, on the bed.

Draco hadn’t moved from his foetal position on the floor. He was whimpering, hand clasped over his arm. Madam Pomfrey looked worried, bent over him with her wand out. Harry’s own pain was a dull, throbbing ache shoved to the back of his mind, but he still couldn’t _think,_ couldn’t understand why Malfoy was here, why he wasn’t under arrest –

None of it made sense. _He got you out._ _He got_ you _out_.

“Tonks!” he gasped. “Remus. Where –?”

Hermione and Ron exchanged a glance, and Harry felt his stomach cramp with fear. “Tonks is fine,” Hermione said, slowly. “She’s already talked to Dumbledore, and she’s gone to give a report to the Ministry.”

Harry nodded. “Remus. He’s – he’s dead, then?” The last Marauder, the last link to his parents, because that _rat_ Wormtail wouldn’t count if they were the last two people left in the whole fucking _world_ –

“No,” Hermione said, quickly. “At least... we don’t know. But Draco said Voldemort wanted him for something, so – so there’s still hope, Harry.”

Harry’s eyes watered, and he had to turn his head away. He felt stupid, like he was overreacting. This wasn’t like Cedric, or Sirius. Remus wasn’t dead, just captured. But he looked at Draco, getting to his feet unsteadily, face tear-stained but closing off, and he felt such an inexplicable sense of _loss_ that it turned his insides to stone and threatened his already fragile control.

“You’re in shock,” Madam Pomfrey said, firmly. “Both of you. You need rest, and Mr Potter, I need to finish healing your injuries. Mr Weasley, if you would be so good as to take Mr Malfoy into the quarantine room while I look Mr Potter over? Miss Granger, if you would help Mr Potter back to bed?”

Hermione nodded, and reached out to touch Harry’s hand. He tried not to flinch, but her eyes filled with tears again, and he knew he hadn’t succeeded.

“Back in a sec,” Ron said, and went to help Malfoy.

Harry sat stiffly as they went past, and tried not to flinch again when Madam Pomfrey approached him, her face and voice gentle. “All right?” she asked. He nodded, and submitted to her ministrations for as long as he could stand it, but moments later he was on his feet again, too jittery to stay still. “Mr Potter, I haven’t quite finished –”

“It’s fine,” he said, and crossed to the quarantine room, wrenching the door open. “I want to know why you did it,” he said.

Ron took one look at his face and slipped past him without a word.

Draco wrapped his arms around his legs, shivering. Harry didn’t feel sorry for him. He _didn’t_ , even though the grey eyes were wet, and his mouth quivered. “Because I couldn’t think of anything else _to_ do, Harry.” His voice was pleading. “Because if I hadn’t, I’d be dead, or in that cell with you, with no chance of escape or rescue. The Dark Lord would have killed you. I _saw_ –”

Harry held up a hand. “You betrayed Pansy,” he said, harshly. “Your _best friend_.”

“She’d already defected,” Draco said, desperately. “The news would have reached the Dark Lord soon enough. I focused his attention on her betrayal to take his attention off me. It was a calculated risk. I went in with a team of Order members, and they rescued not only my mother, but other prisoners. I had to regain his trust, fast. If I hadn’t managed to escape with you, he would have gone after Pansy. Now – now I’m hoping he’ll be too angry with me to remember her betrayal.”

“You told him about my Cloak. You _gave_ it to him.”

Draco’s fingers curled into his palms. “Merlin help me, I had no choice. You told me once that you knew I wouldn’t use your trust against you unless I had no choice, and I _didn’t_. I did what I had to do, sacrificed what I had to, to get you out of that cell.”

Harry felt his eyes fill. “That Cloak was my father’s.”

“I know,” Draco said, his voice strained. “I know, and I’m so sorry, Harry. I’m _sorry._ But I’d already hinted, in my letters, that my relationship with you was reaping insight into your secrets. I had to give him something. And your Cloak was in your pocket; he would have found it anyway. I tried – please believe me, I _tried_. I never wanted to hurt you. Every time I had to – I am so _sorry_.”

He looked so distraught that all the fight went out of Harry. Draco was sincere. He had done what he had to out of necessity, even if Harry couldn’t quite comprehend how someone could _fake_ that kind of cruelty. But then, Draco was a Death Eater, wasn’t he? That was who he was.

“All right,” he said. “I believe you. And I forgive you.”

Draco relaxed with a gasp. There was relief and something very much like hope in his face, and he lifted his hand, reaching out. Harry stared at it, met Draco’s eyes, and then very deliberately turned away.

~*~

He went back to Gryffindor tower.

He needed the comfort of normalcy; the red and gold tapestries, the cheerful, crackling fire, the noise and chatter of the other students. But the room fell silent as he entered, and he found himself, unwillingly, the centre of attention again. He pushed his way through the crowd, determinedly ignoring anyone who looked like they might be working up the courage to talk to him, and headed straight up to the dorms where he could bury his head under his pillow and block out the world.

He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew, someone was shaking his shoulder and saying his name in a low voice. The broad Irish accent was unmistakable, and he groaned and pulled the pillow tighter over his head, wondering if suffocation would work just as well to kill the Horcrux inside him.

“I might just eat all these treacle tarts if you stay under there, mate,” Seamus said, matter-of-factly.

Harry’s stomach rumbled. Loudly. Flushing, he peeked out to find Seamus grinning at him. “Shut it,” he warned.

“Didn’t say a word,” Seamus said. He gestured to the plate of tarts between them on the bed. “How long has it been since you’ve had a good meal?”

“Probably this is not exactly what you’d call a _good_ meal,” Harry said, but he dug in anyway. “Merlin’s shaggy beard, these are brilliant,” he mumbled through a huge mouthful. He’d devoured six before Seamus had finished his first. “What time is it?” he asked. He paused. “What day is it?”

“Tuesday,” Seamus said. “It’s almost dinner, but I figured you might not want to go down.”

Harry nodded. “Thanks.”

“Anytime, mate.” He reclined back against Harry’s pillows, linking his fingers behind his head. “Good to be home, eh?”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. “Is everyone – is Pansy okay?”

“Pansy’s fine,” Seamus said. “Bit shaken up, but then we all are. It’s been a hell of a couple of days.”

“You’re telling me,” Harry said, and Seamus laughed. Harry felt himself relax. “What have I missed?”

“Everything?” Seamus made a face. “It’s a bit of a mess, honestly. Even Dumbledore couldn’t keep the Ministry from interfering; not after an invasion of Death Eaters into Hogwarts. You should see the headlines. And they’ve informed our parents of our unauthorised rescue mission. Dean’s mam is already making noises about taking him out of Hogwarts. The Death Eaters are all in custody, of course. Rowle and Yaxley and Alecto Carrow had their trials rushed through, and they’re on their way to Azkaban. Bellatrix is still in a coma at St Mungo’s, under heavy guard, and the other Carrow too. Malfoy turned him to stone, and they can’t turn him back. The Ministry’s saying Malfoy could be charged with murder.”

“Murder?” Harry echoed, scowling. “How can that be murder? They attacked _us_. We were fighting for our lives!”

“Well, they’re calling it Dark magic,” Seamus shrugged. “Carrow was unarmed at the time, too, which doesn’t look good.”

“After he’d just cast the Scorched Earth spell, wandlessly,” Harry argued, and then stopped. Why was he bothering? “I don’t want to talk about Draco,” he said, abruptly.

Seamus nodded. “Fair enough.”

“What about Justin’s trial?”

“That was postponed until next week. They can’t really hold a trial without the plaintiff, and Malfoy –” He grimaced. “Sorry.”

Harry sighed. “Don’t worry about it. What else?”

“Well, Dumbledore was in with Ollivander and Mr Fortescue for hours… Oh, did you hear? We rescued them too.” Harry shook his head. “Oh. Yeah. They were in the dungeons with Malfoy’s mam. The Ministry took them in for questioning. Last I heard, a safe house was being set up for them, just in case, but Dumbledore thinks they’ll be fine. He thinks You-Know-Who already got the information he needed out of them. He was just keeping them to make sure they didn’t tell us what they told him, if that makes sense. Oh, and Flitwick’s still in the infirmary. He’s the last of ours still laid up. Even Daphne and Neville are up and about now, but Bellatrix tortured Flitwick under the Cruciatus Curse, and Madam Pomfrey says the sustained torture might have caused lasting damage.”

Harry shivered and wrapped his arms around his stomach. He could still feel the touch of Cardosa’s wand against his injured back. Taste the salty tears that ran down the back of his mouth and nose as Draco held him under for what seemed like eternity.

Hear him say: _Cry for me, Harry._

Hear him whisper: _I told you I’d make you cry_.

Hear Voldemort’s gloating laughter, echoing again and again through the vast room.

“…Harry? Harry –”

He pulled violently out of the grasping hands. “Don’t touch me!” he cried. His voice, hoarse and broken, almost failed completely. Seamus sat back, hands raised, and Harry scrubbed his hands over his face. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Don’t apologise,” Seamus said. “I can’t even imagine what you went through.”

“Draco protected me from some of it,” Harry said, quietly. “The worst of it, really. He split my mind, somehow. Gave me a – a sanctuary. I could still feel the pain, but – it was distant, like I was outside my body. And there was comfort, too.”

Seamus gazed at him for a long moment. “You know he loves you, right?”

Harry looked away. He knew. Oh, he’d doubted, in those dungeons beneath Malfoy Manor. Believed Draco’s cruel words. Believed that he’d been playing both sides, and that in the end, he’d chosen his mother over Harry. It was impressive; that ability to wrap lies in half-truths, to bury the real truths so deep down that even Voldemort had been deceived.

But no matter how good Draco’s false-face was, even he couldn’t conceal the truth of how he felt from the one he loved. Not after the trauma they’d just experienced. Harry had seen it in the infirmary; in his pained grey eyes, his outstretched hand, the helpless tears on his cheeks.

He could have forgiven Draco for the betrayal. It was the risk he’d taken, agreeing to Pansy’s Plan. It was nothing, compared to that, to forgive what Draco had done to get them out of there.

But he would never, _ever_ , be able to look at him the same way again.

“Pansy told you, I suppose,” he said. “How long have you known?”

Seamus shrugged. “A week or so. She didn’t want me to tell you. I guess she was hoping he would come to his senses and decide it was all adolescent hormones, or hero-based infatuation or something. I don’t think she realised how effective your courtship would be.”

“No,” Harry sighed. “She always knew it was a risk. So did I. I wish we hadn’t taken it. I wish none of this had ever happened. I wish I’d never agreed to her _bloody fucking_ Plan in the first place.”

Seamus was silent for a while. Then he said, carefully, “I know this probably doesn’t mean much, coming from me. But I’m glad you did.”

Harry huffed. “Yeah. I guess you are. You get to go on that date with her, now.”

Seamus shook his head. “That’s not why. She’s _free_ now, Harry. And her best mate is free. And even though we’ve still got a war to fight, what you did for her, and all the other Slytherins, was incredible. You deserve a – a fucking Order of Merlin or something.”

Harry snorted. “I don’t deserve anything. I tricked Draco into falling in love with me, and now I can’t even look at him. He _loves_ me, and I want nothing to do with him! How is that incredible?”

Seamus winced. “I’m sorry.” He hesitated. “You won a great victory for us, Harry.”

“No, I didn’t,” Harry said, immediately. He’d been injured, knocked out, captured, tortured, and rescued by people who had once been his enemies. The victories had been won by others. Many others, including Remus, but in particular, whether he liked it or not… “Draco won us this battle. His decisions changed _everything_.”

Seamus gazed at him contemplatively. “Yeah,” he said. “I s’pose they did.”

~*~

Not a single fire burnt in the many hearths of Malfoy Manor; not a single wand was lit with _Lumos_ or even a heating charm. It was cold, and dark, and the rooms were silent, as if the inhabitants were terrified of drawing any attention to themselves.

From the very farthest reaches of the Manor, echoing down the halls, came the distant, terrifying sound of screams.

It was a small room in the east wing; used as the ladies’ drawing room in days gone by, and Voldemort had appropriated it first because of its relative seclusion from the main house. But he had discovered certain other advantages. For example, the far wall was one, large mirror, so that wherever he sat in the room, he had only to glance up to be able to see every corner of the room.

In one such corner hung Peter Pettigrew. Voldemort amused himself by idly breaking all the small bones in the rat’s body, one by one. His fury had settled, for the time being, and he had turned his mind to revenge. That traitorous worm of a Malfoy boy had made a terrible mistake, bending to kiss the hem of his Lord’s robes, and then turning Judas in a betrayal that made all others _pale_ in comparison.

He opened his mouth in a snarl, and his next curse struck a little too wild, snapping one of Pettigrew’s ribs. Pettigrew screamed.

It broke his concentration, and he rose to his feet.

Pettigrew whimpered and squirmed, trying desperately to escape his bonds. Voldemort didn’t even look at him. He focused instead on the mirror, through which he could see the body curled up behind the coffee table, bound by collar and leash to one of the sturdy table legs.

“I hope you are not pretending to be unconscious, wolf,” he said. “You know that will not stop me.”

The body curled in on itself a little tighter. There was no reply.

Voldemort smiled in satisfaction. “Your pitiful mind will not withstand my attacks for long. And when I have broken you beyond repair, you will stand by my side as your creator once did, and kill those who were once your friends without mercy. And when it is all over, you will weep for what you have lost as I _raze Hogwarts to the ground_.”

~*~

Harry woke with a cry, cold and sweating, his heart trying to beat out of his chest. His scar burned.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for your comments and kudos! xx

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

**THE EYE OF THE STORM**

_Life isn’t about waiting for the storm to pass;_  
 _it’s about learning to dance in the rain_  
~ Viviane Green

Part One

May was drawing to a close, and with it the beautiful, balmy spring weather that had lasted all month. Instead, it was turning to an uncomfortable warmth that hung heavily in the air, making clothes cling to sweaty skin, and bringing with it a weight of expectation and tense anticipation. It was as if the whole wizarding world was holding its breath; waiting, waiting.

The morning after Harry’s vision of Voldemort and Remus, he went to Dumbledore and demanded another rescue mission to Malfoy Manor.

Dumbledore was reluctant. “After two breaches, Voldemort will have certainly fortified the Manor’s defences by now, Harry,” he said. “I doubt we will be able to get anywhere near it, let alone inside.”

But he agreed in the end, possibly due in part to Tonks’ insistence.

He refused point-blank to allow any students to join the assault, and unfortunately, he was right. Two of the fifteen Order members who volunteered were killed, and three others were badly injured. Moody was among them; he was taken to St Mungo’s in a critical condition.

Tonks refused to retreat, and had to be dragged kicking and screaming from the battlefield, as the remaining Order members struggled to hold back the overwhelming tide of Death Eaters. Apparently Voldemort had sent for reinforcements.

The Ministry assigned Tonks, along with several other Aurors, to patrol Hogwarts. She drifted around the halls as pale as a ghost, her eyes haunted and her hair a limp mousy-brown. Harry avoided her studiously. The pain for her loss and the deaths of the two Order members gnawed at his stomach relentlessly, and Dumbledore’s empty words did little to soothe his guilt.

A train to London was arranged for those students whose parents insisted they return home. After such a shocking violation of school grounds – _Death Eaters in Hogwarts!_ the headlines screamed – the Ministry was conducting a thorough review of Hogwarts’ defences. But that wasn’t enough for many frightened parents; they wanted their children home, safe in their arms, immediately.

A surprising number stayed.

Almost all of the first and second years went, of course, including little Jenny and Eliza, who cried and clung to Ron at the bottom of the Great Staircase until Hagrid came and gently pried their fingers off his robes, lifting them in his arms and taking them outside to be deposited in a carriage.

Most of the third and fourth years left that day, too, but the losses from the upper years were minimal. Even Dean – whose Muggle mother actually came to Hogwarts with the intention of summarily removing him from his classes, and wandered the moors blindly for an hour until Dumbledore let her in – managed to convince her to let him stay.

Ginny wasn’t impressed. She had been inseparable from Zabini ever since the battle (or, as everyone had started to call it, the Invasion), during which Blaise had taken a curse meant for Ginny, and Dean had not fought at all (due to being in the library at the time, studying for exams).

“I came on the mission to Malfoy Manor, didn’t I?” Dean pointed out, in an injured tone, but Ginny had stars in her eyes and no time at all for her ex-boyfriend.

As a consequence, Zabini walked around like the kneazle who got the cream, smirking at Dean and Ron both. Ron because he had had a very public screaming match with Ginny about her relationship with Zabini, during which Ginny had accused him of being prejudiced against Slytherins, and Ron retorted that he had no such problem with _Harry’s_ taste in men, and maybe she should think about _that_ before she took a man-whore to her bed, at which point Ginny burst into scornful laughter (while Harry wished to _Merlin_ he was anywhere else, and tried to sink into the floor), and said that _Malfoy_ was the man-whore, thank you very much, as well as a filthy, cock-sucking traitor, which was going way too far, and Harry hexed her silent.

Ginny, thinking Ron had done it, had slapped him and stormed off in a fury. She and Ron still weren’t speaking, and Zabini seemed positively delighted to be the cause of such a furore.

In stark contrast, the rest of the Slytherins were a subdued bunch. Draco’s group, including Zabini himself, had approached Harry the day after the ill-fated rescue mission for Remus, and pledged their allegiance to him. Millicent even went so far as to get down on one knee, and Harry’s face burned for the rest of the day.

They weren’t the only ones, though. Others followed, in twos or threes, like the trickling of sand through an hour-glass.

Slytherin House was changing, the shifting of power and allegiances as slow as earth moving, but obvious enough to anyone watching. Alliances broke and re-formed in new configurations, influence rose and fell, and all the while a clear rift began to form between those who had defected, and those choosing to remain loyal to Voldemort.

With Snape incarcerated in Azkaban, Dumbledore had elected Professor Slughorn as the new Head of Slytherin House. There was very little respect for him among the Slytherins, however. They looked instead to Pansy and Draco, or to Sadie Atwood and her group of loyalists.

Little Adeline Cardosa was among the first to defect, and then had to plead sanctuary when her father demanded she return home. Dumbledore granted it, and barred the gates to the Ministry representatives that tried to fetch her for her father. Harry gave another interview to Luna for the Quibbler that night, outing Fernando Cardosa as a Death Eater. There was some talk of slander, but there were no more Ministry representatives at the gates.

June Redcombe’s boyfriend defected, and the two walked around hand-in-hand, broad smiles splitting both their faces. Harry did a double-take the first time he saw them on the seventh floor, and then realised stupidly that of course Crabbe and Goyle had no reason to Polyjuice themselves anymore. Draco’s task was finished.

No articles from Rita Skeeter appeared in the Daily Prophet.

Classes resumed as normal. It was study week, and Professors McGonagall, Sprout, Vector and Babbling each took turns filling in for Snape and Flitwick. By Friday morning Professor Flitwick had returned to the Charms classroom. His hands trembled, and he took frequent breaks at his desk, but Madam Pomfrey had released him for light duties and seemed pleased with his progress.

He left the dinner table, meal half-eaten and a hand clutched over his heart, when a special edition of the Daily Prophet arrived screeching that Bellatrix Lestrange had woken from her coma and escaped, killing two Aurors and injuring four others in the process.

Harry stared blankly at the picture of a madly laughing Bellatrix, and left his own meal untouched.

~*~

The halls of Hogwarts were quiet, with hundreds of children gone from all four Houses. Slytherin was quiet, too, but it was a false quiet; the calm before the storm. Draco paid very little attention to the political manoeuvring in his house. He had made it clear to his fellow Slytherins that Pansy had his full support as leader of the rebellion, but he spent the majority of his time in the infirmary, at his mother’s bedside.

She had been in a healing coma ever since she had arrived. She was malnourished, pale and gaunt, with weeping sores and the marks of ongoing torture. Draco hadn’t been able to bring himself to ask about anything else, but Madam Pomfrey had at least been able to assure him that she had never been bitten. She wasn’t a werewolf, and Draco thanked the Founders for small mercies.

It was four days after the ill-fated mission to Malfoy Manor that his mother finally woke. He wasn’t there. Madam Pomfrey had ordered him to the Great Hall for dinner, where he’d spent fifteen minutes picking dispiritedly at his food before returning to find his mother had opened her eyes at last, in his absence.

“It’s altogether possible she will sleep for much longer, if we let her,” Pomfrey told him at the door, in a low voice. “Don’t wake her if she’s gone back to sleep.”

Draco nodded, and hurried back to his mother’s bedside, heart in his throat. Her eyes were closed, and he took a seat, swallowing his disappointment. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, reaching out to grasp the hand lying limply on the bedclothes.

Her eyes fluttered open, and he almost gasped out loud when he saw recognition in them. _Lucidity_. It was far more than he had allowed himself to hope for, even after Madam Pomfrey’s assurances.

“Mother,” he gasped. “Are you all right? How are you feeling?”

She raised a trembling hand to touch his face. When she made contact, she sucked in a breath, almost as if she hadn’t been expecting him to be real. “ _Draco_ ,” she breathed, cupping his cheek with her hand. Draco turned his face into the caress, struggling against the tears. “Oh Draco, oh my _darling_ ,” she said, tears in her own eyes. “You’re here. You succeeded?”

He flinched. “No. I’m sorry, Mother. I – I did fix the Vanishing Cabinet, but I couldn’t go through with it. I defected, in exchange for Potter’s promise to protect us.”

She began to struggle up.

Draco panicked. “No! No, Mother, you’ve been in a coma for _days_. You have to lie still. Please –”

She sank back to the bed obediently, a bewildered frown on her face. “Why, Draco?”

“I know it might be difficult to understand,” he said, haltingly. “I know my duty. I _tried_ , please believe me. But I don’t believe the Dark Lord is what’s right for our family. Potter is powerful, and good. And he will defeat the Dark Lord. I believe he will. He will not Mark us, or torture us, or take our home from us. He won’t manipulate us, or use us against each other. He spoke on my behalf to Dumbledore, and joined the team to rescue you. He deserves our thanks.”

“He deserves much more than that,” Narcissa said, and Draco realised she was smiling. “I am so proud of you, darling. What you did took an enormous amount of courage.”

He breathed out slowly, relieved. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew Potter,” he said, wryly. “He’s incredible, Mother. Brave, and witty, and he has this way of making you feel just – just _safe_. And I –” He swallowed, but couldn’t quite get the words out. _Coward_ , he thought, but his mother was already looking at him in surprise and deep affection.

“You’re in love with him.”

There was no condemnation in her tone; nothing to suggest disapproval. If anything, quite the opposite. Still, he felt ashamed. He was being childish. There were no church bells and happily-ever-afters for wizards with an inclination towards the same sex.

He could have been happy with what little he was allowed to have, though. The Infinity Mirror had shown him that. Little flashes of happiness, of _love_. But none of it mattered, now. He’d lost Harry. Somehow, somewhere, he must have made the wrong decision. Taken a wrong turn in the path.

“It wasn’t intentional,” he explained. “He was courting me. Trying to turn me. And I – I didn’t have the strength to resist him.”

“Oh, my darling,” Narcissa said. “My darling, foolish dragon. The heart is the most powerful muscle in the body. Resisting it doesn’t make you strong, but allowing it to _love_ gives you strength for which there is no comparison. And when that love is returned…”

Draco laughed. It was a broken, pained sound, and he was immediately mortified.

His mother looked startled. “What is it, love?”

“I’m sorry, Mother. It’s just… I’ve ruined everything.”

She turned her hand over in his, gripping it tightly. “Tell me what happened.”

Draco shook his head. “It’s a long story.”

She smiled. “I have time,” she said, and when he felt tears fill his eyes, and hid his face pathetically in the bedcovers, she just put her hand on his head and listened.

~*~

On Saturday, Harry was given a clean bill of health from Madam Pomfrey. Since he’d flatly refused to step foot in the infirmary, she’d been scheduling daily appointments in her own quarters, next door.

He went straight from there to McGonagall’s classroom, where he served his detention cleaning up after a particularly messy fifth-year class reviewing the Transfiguration of solid objects to liquid. He appreciated the work. It helped to focus on the repetitious movements, driving back the memories that tried to crowd into his mind in unwary moments.

When Professor McGonagall let him go, he found Ron and Hermione waiting for him outside the classroom.

“The Ministry is _hopeless_ ,” Hermione announced, hands on her hips.

Ron threw an alarmed glance around the hallway, grabbed her arm and pulled her into a nearby alcove. Harry followed them, not because he was particularly interested, but because – well, he didn’t have anything better to do, did he?

“It’s been a week,” Hermione insisted. “And they haven’t even found _one_ of the secret passages. All they do is stand around poking uselessly at the wards around the grounds, and the Death Eaters didn’t even _try_ to get in that way. Shouldn’t that tell them something?”

“To be fair, they did get rid of the Vanishing Cabinet,” Ron pointed out.

She pinned him with a Look. “That is not the point, Ronald. The _point_ is, there are secret passages into Hogwarts which Voldemort could use at any time –”

“But why would he get Malfoy to make a whole new passage with the cabinet, if he already knew about the others?” Ron asked reasonably, not at all cowed.

Harry reflected that, really, their relationship was doing wonders for the both of them. But thoughts like that inevitably led to thoughts of his own relationship with Draco, and he shut it down quickly. All he’d done this past week was tear himself up inside with guilt and pain and regret, and he was fucking sick of it.

“He might find out about them,” Hermione argued. “All it takes is the wrong question, asked of the wrong person...” She cast a quick, apologetic glance at Harry.

“Hermione,” Ron warned, but Harry was already shaking his head.

“No. She’s right, Ron. Remus was one of the Marauders. He created the Map; he knows all the secret passages. He’d never give up that information willingly, but –”

“Wormtail was one of the Marauders,” Ron said, frowning. “Wouldn’t he already have –?”

“Maybe,” Hermione said. “I did some investigating of my own, before – uh, before everything with Harry and Malfoy’s magic –”

Harry winced and looked away. Their so-called Mage magic was not something he wanted to think about right now. Or ever again, really. A ‘destiny’, indeed. What was he, a twelve-year-old girl? The only destiny he had was to die, and that was more than enough fucking destiny for anyone.

“Anyway,” Hermione continued, after an awkward pause, “Apparently there are wards on each entrance in Hogsmeade. They alert the Headmaster if anyone with a Dark Mark crosses the threshold. If Voldemort does know about the secret passages, he’d know about the wards as well. It wouldn’t stop him in an all-out assault on Hogwarts, of course, but he couldn’t have used them in the Invasion without losing the element of surprise. Which would have been essential to any plan involving an attempt on the Headmaster’s life.”

“Unless the target wants to die,” Harry pointed out.

“Well, they didn’t know that,” Hermione said, “but you’re right, of course. I still don’t understand why – no, I understand why he doesn’t want a long, drawn-out death. But why _Snape_? Why then, there?”

“It’s simple,” Harry said. “Dumbledore made mistakes, like we all do. Putting on that cursed ring, letting Snape make that Unbreakable Vow. But instead of accepting the consequences and living with them, he decided to use Draco, manipulate him and everyone else into making the prophecy play out just as he wanted. It would have worked, too, if it hadn’t been for Pansy.”

Ron and Hermione exchanged a worried glance. “Harry,” Hermione said, tentatively. “Do you want to talk about…?”

“What?” Harry said, flatly. “The Horcrux inside me? Draco? Our fucked-up magic? I don’t think so.”

Hermione sighed. “All right. But you know we’re here if you want to talk. Anytime.”

Harry nodded silently, and averted his eyes when Ron squeezed her hand and dropped a consoling kiss in her hair.

~*~

Draco stood staring out of the large picture window on the sixth floor. It was one of the best views from the castle, and it was shaping up to be an exceptionally beautiful day again, bright and warm. It just made Draco’s mood darker.

An arm slipped around his waist and someone leaned into him, the sweet scent of jasmine drifting up to him. “All right, love?”

He shook his head. “Not even a little bit.”

Pansy sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be,” Draco said. “You took a risk for me, going to Potter. How it turned out is not your fault.”

“I still don’t know how you figured it out,” she said.

“No?” Draco said, arching an eyebrow at her. “My attentions to our House may have been somewhat diverted this year, but you weren’t exactly subtle, near the end.”

“I was desperate,” she agreed. “You can be _very_ stubborn, love, and defecting wasn’t something you’d ever even considered before. I couldn’t be sure you would make the right decision.”

Draco’s fingers tightened on the windowsill. “The Mirror, though. That was real?”

“Of course it was.” She put her hand over his, urging him to relax his fingers. “I didn’t expect to See what I saw, either. But I can’t say I was surprised. The Dark Lord destroys _everything_. He would have destroyed you, and everything you hold dear. Your family, the Manor. Me.”

“I know,” he said, a muscle in his jaw flexing. “He still might.”

“But we have a chance, now,” Pansy said.

“We have a chance,” Draco echoed. “The paths where I… even when I succeeded in killing Dumbledore, the Dark Lord didn’t always pardon us. There was never a guarantee, of course. He has always been unpredictable.”

“That’s one word for it,” Pansy agreed. “I prefer unstable, myself. Unbalanced. Unhinged.”

There was a distinct lack of the appropriate fear and respect in her voice, and Draco shook his head. He was embarrassed it had taken him so long to figure out her agenda. But then, her mother’s death had devastated her. Draco was inclined to think the Dark Lord had made a grave tactical error, that night.

“You’re just lucky Harry had feelings for me,” he said. “He’s the only one I would have ever defected for. It’s clear Dumbledore had no intention of following through with his very belated offer. Without Harry, I would be on the run by now, or – or if I’d chosen to stay at Voldemort’s side, watch Harry take my place in the Dark Moon Ritual, watch him _die_...”

Pansy shivered against him. “We thwarted that fate.”

“Did we?” Draco said, quietly. He could see the main gates if he squinted, and there were two tiny figures in Auror robes making their way purposefully down the path to Hogwarts. “The Mirror didn’t show us everything, Pans. The Dark Lord may still have his ritual.”

“He can try,” Pansy said, grimly. “But neither you nor Potter will be in the starring role, I promise you that.”

“Harry won’t,” Draco agreed, and Pansy made a noise of protest. “I know you would die for me,” he said, and she flinched. “It’s not an accusation,” he told her. “Only the most dishonourable purebloods would not die for their family.”

She frowned. “We’re not blood, Draco.”

“But we _are_ family,” he retorted. “You’re like a sister to me.”

She stared at him for a long moment, eyes growing suspiciously shiny. Then she smiled, a hint of mischief playing on her lips. “Well, we were never going to be lovers. We know _that_.”

Draco chuckled despite himself. He honestly didn’t know any other girl who could have faced his disinterest in her with such equanimity. Not only that, but coax him out of the panic attack he’d had at not being able to perform. The thought of not being able to produce an heir had frozen him with fear. But Pansy had reassured him, reminding him that when the time came, there were potions to help him do his duty, and in the meantime, there was no law that said he had to find his pleasure with _girls_.

Of course, he was pretty damn sure she’d never expected him to fall into bed with Harry Potter.

“We’re family,” he repeated. “Harry, however, is not. I can’t – _won’t_ – ask you to choose his life over your own. But Pansy, you have to promise me. If it comes down to Harry and I, you’ll choose him.”

Pansy stiffened. “Absolutely not.”

“This is not a negotiation,” he said, grimly. “I owe him _everything_ , Pans. He saved my life, and I failed him. I took his love and twisted it, made _fun_ of it for the Dark Lord’s amusement. You should have seen his face. I hurt him, betrayed him, _used_ him –”

“To save his life,” Pansy pointed out. “You could have earned yourself great favour by truly betraying Potter. But you didn’t. And at great personal risk, I might add.”

Draco blinked at her. “Sweet Circe,” he said, dryly. “You're right. I’ve turned into a Gryffindor.”

Pansy was surprised into a laugh. “Merlin forbid!” she said. “I can’t imagine – no, no, I think the universe would implode!”

Draco’s eyes crinkled, but he didn’t smile. “Promise me,” he said, seriously.

The laughter in her eyes died. “That’s why you saved him, isn’t it?” she said. “You _do_ love him.”

Draco sighed. “I’m sorry. I know you intended me to use his feelings to my advantage; to defect and then throw him over. But I’m afraid you miscalculated. It’s always been him. It’s only _ever_ been him. We’ve been circling each other ever since the day we met. All we did is exchange one dance for another. He’s the _reason_ I realised I was gay, years ago. I thought I hated him, but I don’t think I ever really did.”

“Oh, Draco,” she sighed. “I know you didn’t. You were just waiting for him to give you a chance.”

And that stupid, selfless Gryffindor had given him one, Draco thought. “Do you think we can fix this?” he asked, miserably.

“I don’t know,” Pansy said. “But your magic is bound. Your _souls_ are bound. That has to mean something. You said your ancestor believed White Mages were born for a destiny, right?”

Draco shook his head. “Even if that’s true, there’s no reason to suppose we have to be lovers, or even friends, to fulfil that destiny. Jeremiah believed that Merlin and Nimueh were White Mages; maybe even the very first pair. It’s said their destiny was prophesied centuries before they were even born, but their bond was too volatile. Nimueh never accepted his love, and in the end, she betrayed him and trapped him in a cave for all eternity.”

Pansy raised an eyebrow. “It’s also said that it was Merlin and Arthur who had that ‘special bond’.” Draco shrugged dismissively, and she clicked her tongue. “Draco, Jeremiah Malfoy may have been the most thorough historian in the world, but our legends of Merlin are just that. Legend. Myth. No more fact than the Muggle versions of the story. We don’t know Merlin and Nimueh were bonded by Wild Magic. For all we know, it’s impossible for a pair of White Mages _not_ to be lovers.”

Draco sighed. “Harry hates me for what I did to him, Pans. I know, even if he hasn’t said the words. I can feel it, here.” He tapped his chest, over his heart. “He’ll never forgive me.”

Pansy shook her head. “He will. He has to. He’s blinded by his hurt right now; recovering from a serious ordeal. But time will heal. You have to believe that.”

“Perhaps,” Draco said. “But time is in short supply right now. Perhaps the best I can hope for is to make sure he survives this war.”

Pansy scowled. “But not at the cost of _your_ life. Draco, darling, I may have to confiscate your crown entirely if you continue this self-sacrificial nonsense.”

“I have no intention of sacrificing myself,” Draco assured her. “But you have to understand, Harry is my heart, now. I could no more allow him to die than I could rip my physical heart out of my chest.”

She stared at him for a moment. Then she sighed, reaching up to kiss his cheek. “Very well. I will protect him as I would you. But you understand this: I will never choose him over you. I will find a way to save you _both._ ”

Draco felt a small ember of hope kindle to life inside him. “I would expect nothing else,” he said, smiling. He fixed her with a stern look. “Just as I expect you to never speak of this conversation to Potter. If – if he ever forgives me, it wouldn’t do for him to know just how far he has me twisted around his finger. It could ruin my reputation as the Ice Prince forever.”

Pansy chuckled. “And here everybody thought you didn’t know what they call you behind your back.”

Draco arched an eyebrow. “Who do you think came up with the name? I could hardly allow the scores of girls throwing themselves at me to come to the correct conclusion on their own.”

Pansy laughed. “Oh, of course, of _course_ it was you. How did I miss that?”

“I didn’t earn my title for my pretty face. Well,” he smirked, “not _just_ for my pretty face.”

She grinned, opening her mouth to respond in kind.

“Draco Malfoy?”

They spun together, wands falling into their hands, shields up instinctively and building on each other in a practised web before they even realised who they were facing. Two Aurors: Dawlish and a pureblood Draco recognised as one of the Rookwoods. Jordan, he thought. Behind them were Dumbledore and Professor Slughorn.

“Take down the ward and surrender your wand, Mr Malfoy,” Rookwood said.

“Why?” Pansy demanded. “What do you want with him?”

They ignored her. “You are hereby under arrest for the murder of Amycus Carrow,” Dawlish said. “If you do not surrender quietly, we will be required to use force, and you will be denied even the basic courtesy of a trial before you are incarcerated in Azkaban for your crime.”

~*~

Harry stared up at the sky, arms crossed behind his head. He was lying in the long grass of the east lawn, a safe distance from the Whomping Willow. Ron and Hermione were busy dodging flailing branches and yelling out disjointed phrases of the incantation necessary to seal the secret passage beneath.

Unfortunately, while Hermione had managed to seal the other six passages with no problems, the Whomping Willow was taking much longer than they’d expected. Apparently the tree had developed a resistance to pressing the knot at the base of the trunk, and Hermione was trying (and so far, failing) to figure out a way to produce the same effect with a spell.

Harry had decided to leave them to it. He wasn’t sleeping well, and although it was a little too hot to actually nap, he was just happy to take some unscheduled time off from Hermione’s strict study plan. He entertained himself with counting the few wisps of pure, white cloud high above, giving them the names of his enemies.

 _Voldemort_.

 _Cardosa_.

 _Bellatrix_.

 _Peter Pettigrew_.

 _Snape_.

He toyed with the idea of adding Draco to the list, and watched one, small cloud drift across the sky, picturing Draco’s face.

The soft halo of hair around his face after they’d – _after_. The pale, flawless skin. The changeable grey eyes; sometimes light and soft, like the gentle ripples of a pond after a summer rain, sometimes dark and stormy, like the growing menace of thunderclouds spreading across the horizon.

“Potter!”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. He knew that voice, and he knew that tone; it always spelled trouble. He shot to his feet, turning. “Parkinson. What is it?”

“Draco,” Pansy said, skidding up to him. Harry felt his face harden. “No, Potter, please!” she begged. “We swore our allegiance to you. You have to help him! Draco never – they can’t – he’ll never survive _Azkaban_ –!”

Harry frowned. “What do you mean, Azkaban?”

But she was almost hyperventilating, and Hermione hurried forward to put an arm around her shoulders. “Hey, it’s okay,” she said, gently. “Take a breath. Tell us what happened.”

“Draco has been arrested for Carrow’s murder,” Pansy gasped. “Potter, I know he hurt you, but –”

Harry held up a hand. She fell silent instantly, and he had a sudden, uncomfortable moment of understanding just how tempting that kind of power over another person could be. He shoved it away quickly. Just because he had an evil fragment of Voldemort’s soul attached to his own, didn’t mean he had to become like him. He _wouldn’t_.

“I’m coming,” he said.

Pansy's knees almost buckled in relief. “ _Thank_ you,” she said.

They followed her at a run back to the castle, up the Great Staircase.

“They’re in Dumbledore’s office,” Pansy said breathlessly, as they took the stairs two at a time. “He’s trying to stall them, insist that Draco’s mother be present. He’s still a minor. They shouldn’t even be legally allowed to come onto school property and do this, but after the Invasion –”

“Is she up to leaving the infirmary?” Harry asked.

“For Draco?” Pansy said, grimly. “Not even the hell-fires of the Underworld could stop her.”

“Ron –”

“Got it,” Ron agreed, and skipped neatly over the railing to land on a staircase just turning below. He whipped open the door and disappeared, leaving Harry, Hermione and Pansy waiting impatiently for their own staircase to finish turning. Then they all but sprinted down the halls to Dumbledore’s office.

“Lemon ice-bubbles,” Harry snapped, and the gargoyle began to turn.

They squeezed onto the step together, the gargoyle creaking slowly and steadily up to Dumbledore’s office. Harry pushed through the tiny gap at the top without even waiting for the gargoyle to finish turning, and slammed the door open.

He was just in time to see Draco’s frightened face vanish from the fireplace.

Rage flashed through him, boiling up from the pit of his stomach. After everything they’d been through, after _everything_ – there was no _fucking_ way he was going to let the Ministry slap Draco in Azkaban.

“What the HELL is going on here?” he roared.

Dumbledore startled, and turned. He looked surprised, and then not so very surprised. “Harry, my boy,” he said. “I should have expected you. I sent Horace to find you, but apparently Miss Parkinson’s resourcefulness has come through for us yet again.” There was no censure in his voice, but Harry noticed he didn’t look at Pansy. “I am afraid you’ve just missed them. They didn't want to take any chances on running into students, this time. I suppose Miss Parkinson has informed you of the charges Mr Malfoy is facing?”

“Yes,” Harry said. “And I’m going to get Draco back.”

“You will need help, if you’re to do that through the proper legal channels,” Dumbledore warned him. “And you _must_ do this through the proper channels, Harry, or you are liable to be taken into custody as well, on aiding and abetting charges. Give me one moment to let Auror Tonks and Professor McGonagall know that I am leaving the castle, and we will go together.”

~*~

Scrimgeour’s young secretary told them that there was no possible way they could see him; the Minister’s calendar was booked solid for the next week, but if they’d like to make an appointment, she could perhaps squeeze them in for ten minutes to see him next Friday…?

She looked tired, and Harry wondered if the Minister and his staff always worked through the weekend, or if the war was taking its toll.

He put a hand up to his forehead and very deliberately pushed his hair aside. His scar had brought him nothing but misery and pain and embarrassment over the years, and now it served as a grim reminder that he was a Horcrux, too. But if he could use it to get justice done, why shouldn’t he? It wasn’t as if he’d be abusing that power much longer.

And, well. It was _Draco_.

Her eyes widened. “Harry Potter.”

Harry felt an ugly thrill of satisfaction. “The Minister will see me,” he said.

The girl murmured something confused and incoherent, hurrying over to the door beyond her desk. Harry didn’t wait for her to finish asking for Scrimgeour’s permission; he knew the Minister would deny him. Anything to get the upper hand in their little power struggle, and with Draco in the Ministry’s custody, Scrimgeour already had too much of an upper hand for Harry’s taste.

He pushed around the secretary, who squeaked in alarm. “Minister.”

Scrimgeour’s eyes narrowed. “Ah. Mr Potter. What a pleasant surprise. Do come in, make yourself at home.”

Harry, who had already perched himself on one of the stiff-backed chairs in front of the desk, just smiled sharply and waited for his companions to file in.

Scrimgeour nodded at his secretary, and she closed the door quietly behind them. Then he folded his hands together, frowning. “Am I to take it you are all here because the Malfoy boy has been taken into custody?”

“Very astute of you, Minister,” Harry said, flatly.

Pansy hissed, and Ron jerked in his chair.

“What Mr Potter _means_ to say, Rufus,” Dumbledore said, diplomatically, “is that we believe there has been a miscarriage of justice. Carrow was part of an incursion force into Hogwarts. He had just used the Scorched Earth Curse on a hallway full of students and teachers. Young Mr Malfoy was simply acting in self-defence.”

“He glued Carrow’s tongue to the top of his mouth,” Scrimgeour said. “Our experts are definite about this. An effective strategy in battle; one I myself have used, in fact. But then to turn a man to stone while he is unarmed and unable to speak? That is murder, plain and simple.”

“There is no telling what spell Carrow may have used next,” Dumbledore argued. “If he was able to master _Depopulo_ wandlessly, with no one but Mr Malfoy still standing, every person in that hallway was at risk. He simply took the measures he deemed necessary to remove that threat.”

“Clearly the ‘measures’ deemed necessary by a Death Eater are far more extreme than those of law-abiding citizens,” Scrimgeour said. “Malfoy is following in his father’s footsteps, Albus. He is a danger to society, and this act has only proved that.”

Harry rose to his feet, resting his fists deliberately on the Minister’s desk. “Draco _defected_ ,” he said, and he was proud of how steady his voice was. “And I would have done exactly the same thing to stop Carrow, in his place.”

The Minister’s eyebrows rose. “Use Dark magic, you mean, Mr Potter?” he asked. “Would you really?”

“My son would never murder a man like that,” Narcissa said. Harry turned to look at her. Pansy had helped her into the chair by the door, and she sat straight and tall, hands clasped in her lap. Her ordeal had made her sickly and fragile, but her grey eyes were determined. “The Dark Lord ordered him to kill Dumbledore. He threatened him with my death and his own, but even then, my boy couldn’t go through with it. He is a child, Minister. Not yet seventeen. His heart is innocent, untainted with the evil my husband brought into our home. He had no choice but to accept the Dark Mark, and he has committed no crimes since then that have brought lasting ill-effect to others. When he was given the chance to defect – when Mr Potter reached out to him – Draco chose to defect, and fought alongside those protecting the school. He is not a murderer.”

She looked at Harry, and Harry was struck by the gratitude in her eyes. Was that how his own mother might have looked, under similar circumstances; that someone had taken care of her son, when she could not?

“The man made of stone in St Mungo’s might argue with that, Mrs Malfoy,” Scrimgeour said, gently. “If, of course, he was alive to make his case. As he is not –”

“He’s not dead,” Pansy said.

Scrimgeour blinked. “My dear child, our _best_ Healers and experts in Transfiguration and accidental curses have tried to reverse the spell, to no avail. Of course he’s dead.”

“It was Draco’s spell,” Pansy said. “Let him try to reverse it.”

“Miss Parkinson, if our experts couldn’t do it, Mr Malfoy certainly cannot.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to try, surely, Rufus?” Dumbledore said. “After all, it would be unjust to accuse the boy of murder if Carrow isn’t actually dead.”

Scrimgeour looked undecided. “I suppose you may be right. But it will take some days to –”

“Today,” Harry said. “And we _will_ be present.”

Scrimgeour’s jaw twitched. “Of course,” he said. “As you wish, Mr Potter.”

~*~

Three hours later, the Minister called them back into his office. Everything had been arranged, he said, and a direct Floo had been opened to St Mungo’s.

Harry was tempted to ask him what had taken so bloody long. He was well aware of what hate and fear could motivate people to do. Head Auror Robards had lost his wife to Voldemort, and there were dozens of Aurors under him who had fought in the last war, many of whom had no doubt lost friends and family, colleagues and partners. And now there was another war brewing, and people were already dying, or going missing – including Robards’ son.

Three hours was a hell of a long time for a Death Eater in Auror custody right now.

“Don’t make it worse, Harry,” Hermione whispered, clamping a hand over his arm. “We’re almost there.”

He grimaced, but shut his mouth.

Dumbledore and Draco’s mum went through first, followed closely by Pansy, and then Ron and Hermione. Harry made to follow, but Scrimgeour stopped him.

“Sir?” he said, politely.

“There is a way I could ensure Mr Malfoy stays out of prison, whether or not he manages to reverse the curse he used on Carrow,” Scrimgeour offered.

Harry froze. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

Scrimgeour looked shocked. “Mr Potter,” he said. “There’s no need for that kind of language. Young Malfoy is facing some very serious charges. The use of Dark magic means that a full trial will have to be called, and the Wizengamot will not be able to overlook the fact that he is a Death Eater, nor that his family has a long history of practising Dark magic.”

Harry almost snorted. Personally, he was inclined to believe Draco’s explanation of Dark and Light magic. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Draco had _chosen_ to hurt him, to torture him until the very limit of human endurance.

Harry didn’t remember most of it. The split in his mind had provided him with a sanctuary to hide in; a beautiful little paradise with sun and trees and the smell of warm earth and new growth.

It was still there, somewhere in his mind. Draco had put up a wall to protect the sanctuary from encroachment by the outside world, but it was closed off to him as well, now. And that was madness, wasn’t it? To have a part of his own mind inaccessible even to himself? Maybe he did belong in the Janus Thickey ward. Maybe, if he was trapped in a _physical_ cage, he would be able to find that inner peace again.

“Mr Potter?”

He looked up at Scrimgeour. “Draco is a Dark wizard, yes,” he said. “He’d tell you that himself. But you can’t charge him for that, can you? Otherwise, Lucius Malfoy would have been in Azkaban long before he stepped foot in the Department of Mysteries, last year. Magic is about intent, and Draco didn’t intend to kill Carrow. He’ll be able to reverse it.”

“And if he can’t?” Scrimgeour asked, carefully.

Ever the consummate politician, Harry thought. “He will.”

Scrimgeour sighed. “I admire your confidence, Mr Potter. Would that I shared it. But won’t you at least consider my offer? I would like to help, if it should turn out your lover falls short.”

Harry didn’t let himself react. The Minister didn’t need to know that Draco was no longer his boyfriend. He would only try to use it against them. “Is this the standing offer again?” he asked. “The one where I support the Ministry’s choices since Voldemort’s return?”

Scrimgeour winced. “You-Know-Who, Potter,” he said. “There’s no need to say his name.”

“Actually, there’s every need,” Harry argued. “Until people stop being afraid of him, he’ll never really be gone, not even after he’s dead. You’re playing right into his hands. With everyone too afraid to fight him, he grows more powerful by the day. If the wizarding world united against him, he wouldn’t stand a chance.”

Scrimgeour regarded him thoughtfully. “Perhaps. I’ve worked for so long inside the system, now… I used to be like you, you know. Before the first war.” He smiled reminiscently. “Wide-eyed, idealistic, determined to save the world, rescue the innocent and bring criminals to justice.”

“Sir?”

“I always hated politics, would you believe?” Scrimgeour mused. “But I’ve been riding a desk for almost a decade now, and one does what one must, in a bureaucracy. You begin with the very best of intentions, manipulating the system to serve the needs of the people, and somewhere along the way, the line between serving the needs of the people and _your_ needs becomes blurred, and you find yourself walking a path you could never have imagined you would take, when you were still that young and idealistic man.”

Harry frowned. “Minister,” he said. “You know I would stand with the Ministry, if I thought you were really trying to do the right thing?”

Scrimgeour’s eyes widened. “All I have ever wanted,” he said, “is what’s best for the wizarding world.”

Harry shrugged. “I get that, sir. I’ve made mistakes. Stupid mistakes that could cost us the war, even. All we can really do is to admit that they were mistakes, and apologise, and try to make amends. Anything else, and you could wake up one day to find yourself doing a whole lot more harm than good.”

Scrimgeour gave Harry a long, searching look. “I believe I may have underestimated you, Mr Potter. You have a wise head on your shoulders, for all that you are so young. I just hope, for your sake, that you are right about Mr Malfoy.”

 _You and me both_ , Harry didn’t say.

~*~

Carrow’s face was frozen in an expression of rage, mouth wide open in a silent roar, blank stone eyes staring eerily out at nothing.

Harry shivered, trying to imagine how Draco must have felt, facing that alone. He wished, more than anything, that he could still care. But his feelings for Draco were all mixed up with the memory of him standing at Voldemort’s side, the shape of his mouth as he formed the word _Crucio_ , the coldness in his eyes as Harry screamed under his wand.

It wasn’t fair. Draco had suffered, too. Not just in Malfoy Manor, but this entire year, struggling against forces far greater than he; a pawn in the hands of the merciless, good and evil.

“Minister,” said a voice behind them.

Harry turned as two Aurors came through the door; Dawlish and another one. Draco was between them, arms bound cruelly behind his back, his face drawn and scared. Harry stiffened. They weren’t being gentle, pulling Draco to the centre of the room just slightly too fast, dragging him off his feet. They shoved him to his knees in front of the stone statue, and the little grunt of pain he made was the last straw.

Before Harry could even think of an incantation, the two Aurors were flying in separate directions to slam up against opposite walls.

Dawlish looked shocked. His partner didn’t hesitate, lunging at Harry with hands outstretched, as if he was going to strangle him. “Why you _little_ –!”

“Rookwood!” Scrimgeour snapped.

The Auror jerked to a stop inches from Harry, scowling. His fingers flexed.

Harry just snarled back at him, far too angry to be intimidated. “Is this how all your prisoners are treated, Minister? You don’t even know there’s been a crime yet!”

“I’d say the lump of rock here speaks differently, Potter,” Rookwood sneered.

“Draco’s going to change that,” Harry retorted.

Draco made a strangled noise from the floor. “Harry?”

“You can do it, sweetheart,” Narcissa said.

Draco spun on his knees, looking alarmed. “ _Mother_?” He reached out to her, moving as if he might stand, but Rookwood took a threatening step forward, and Draco flinched backwards.

Harry’s breath caught in his throat. Draco had _flinched_. The flinch of someone expecting a blow; an instinctive reaction borne of terror and abuse. It was a flinch Harry’s own body knew all too well, learnt over long years of dodging his uncle’s fists. He knew what it meant.

Rookwood had _hurt_ Draco.

It was like something snapped in him. All the pain, the rage and grief and guilt and confusion he’d been bottling up inside over the last week (over a lifetime) burst through his dams, and he lost control. It ripped through him, a force of nature, his body a poor vessel for such towering rage. He was blind to everything but the whirlwind, the storm; thunder and lightning and a howling that battered at him unrelentingly, almost drowning out the sound of his own cries.

The storm was timeless, eternal. He _was_ the storm. He was Magic, power and majesty, in the wind, the driving rain, the dreadful claps of thunder. He was no longer human, but one with the punishing, unforgiving power of Nature. None could stand before him; his might was that of the old gods, and his fury had no bounds.

He banished Rookwood from this world, and it was as simple as swatting a fly.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for your comments and kudos! xx

**CHAPTER FIFTEEN**

**THE EYE OF THE STORM**

Part Two

Faint screams penetrated through the noise of the tempest. They were less than irrelevant; the pitiful squeaks of mice caught under the claws of a great dragon. The storm was growing, a merciless gale-force that lashed at the four walls containing it, drowned out only by the roar of thunder and the deafening crack of lightning as it illuminated the room for a moment before crashing back into unrelenting darkness.

Roiling thunderclouds pressed against the flimsy wards, testing, testing. The storm would not be confined for long. It would rip through the wards, spread out across the sky, and consume the world.

Then hands cupped his face, and a voice said, “Harry. Harry. _Harry_.”

And he remembered: _I have a name._ _I have a face_.

He felt disconnected, out of step, like a dissonant chord or a note played in the wrong song. Because he was Magic, he was the storm, but he had a name, and a body, and someone was drawing him down into their arms and cradling him tenderly. His hair dripped into his eyes, and his face was wet, but it wasn’t rain.

“Shh, shh,” whispered the voice, and kissed his tears away, and kept kissing him, long after Harry thought was strictly necessary. Had he really cried that much? “Harry,” said the voice, again. He opened his eyes to see Draco staring at him. “Harry.” He stroked Harry’s wet hair back from his face, and his tone was wondering. “You really have forgiven me.”

Harry just blinked at him. “I told you I had.” His voice sounded strange; small and far away.

Draco smiled weakly, and tapped Harry’s chest. “In here, though. I didn’t think you could have. But I should have known you meant what you said.”

“I’m a Gryffindor,” Harry agreed. He shivered, suddenly; a bone-chilling cold that seeped through his wet robes into his skin. He looked up at the slowly dispersing clouds, and then around the room. “M-Merlin,” he said, teeth chattering.

“With power like that, you may as well be,” Draco said, awed. “Harry…”

“What did he _do_?” Dawlish interrupted, in a shrill voice. He was crouched in the corner of the room with his arms over his head, looking terrified; not so very different from everyone else, Harry realised. Even Dumbledore looked thoroughly shaken. “Where’s Jordan? Where’s my partner?”

“He vanished,” Pansy said. Her face was white, her usually carefully-styled hair hanging limp and wet around her face. “Into _thin air_.”

“Harry,” Dumbledore said. “Harry, what did you do, my boy?”

Harry shook his head. Draco tightened his arms around him, and he took comfort in that. Draco was strong, and warm, and – not wet. Harry frowned. “You’re not wet,” he said, stupidly.

Draco shook his head. He was smiling. “You kept me dry.”

Harry looked at him blankly. “I did this,” he said. The furniture had been smashed beyond recognition, mattresses torn to shreds, curtains ripped from the windows, the statue of Carrow knocked over. Pansy had sheltered Narcissa in a corner, and no one appeared to be hurt, but… He grasped a fistful of Draco’s robes, trying to steady himself. “I sent Rookwood away.”

“Where?” Hermione asked, as Ron helped her to her feet. She pushed soaking, tangled hair out of her face with unsteady hands. “Harry, honey?” she prompted. “Where did you send him?”

“Back,” he said. “In time. To Merlin’s time, I think.”

“ _Bloody_ hell, mate,” Ron breathed.

Dawlish looked horrified. “You sent my partner _back in time_? Bring him back! You hear me? Bring him back _this instant_!”

Harry could feel himself beginning to shake. He thought he was probably going into shock. Twice in one week; Madam Pomfrey _would_ be pleased. “I don’t know how,” he said, helplessly. “I’m sorry. I don’t even know what I did. I was just so _angry_ –” He broke off, jaw tightening. “He had no right to treat Draco like that. I’m not sorry for stopping him, but I am sorry for how I did it. I didn’t mean to – to frighten anyone, or to send Rookwood back in time. It just happened.”

“You didn’t mean to,” Dawlish repeated, hysterically. “Minister, he needs to be arrested! There must be a law –”

“Calm yourself, Dawlish,” Scrimgeour said. “We’ll get to the bottom of this.” He began casting drying and grooming charms on himself, and, as if everyone had just woken up from a dream, they pulled out their wands to do the same.

Dawlish blinked around at them all disbelievingly. “It’s murder, what he’s done! Don’t you understand that? It might as well be, if he can’t bring him back! Jordan’s dead and buried, centuries ago!”

A knot formed in Harry’s chest. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s not good enough!” Dawlish cried. “The Malfoy boy’s corrupted him, Minister! Made him as evil as any Death Eater – as You-Know-Who himself!”

Scrimgeour sighed impatiently. “ _Enough_ , Auror. Now is not the time.” Dawlish’s mouth snapped shut, but he looked mulish. “Dumbledore and I raised wards to protect the rest of the hospital, but that much raw magic will not have gone unnoticed. The hospital coordinators will be needing reassurance, and I need you to get in contact with Robards. We may need to quell a panic. Damage control is required, immediately. If you feel you won’t be any use in the state you’re in, go directly to the Director’s office on the fourth floor and request to use her Floo to contact Robards.”

“But – but, _Jordan_ –”

“I am losing patience with you, Auror,” Scrimgeour said, grimly. “ _Go_.” It was a clear dismissal, and Dawlish spun on his heel, slamming out of the room. “Albus –”

“Mr Potter did not do this intentionally,” Dumbledore assured him. “His magic is beyond his control.”

“We’ll discuss that in a moment,” Scrimgeour decided. “Right now, there is a question of Mr Malfoy’s guilt or innocence to be decided, and little time to waste on it. I would like it proved one way or another, without further ado. Can you restore Amycus Carrow or not, boy?”

Harry’s jaw clenched. He was beginning to feel awkward and uncomfortable, curled up against Draco’s chest as he was, but he felt as if he might just shake apart if he let go now.

Draco’s face was tight. “I used the Stone Curse, Minister. I don’t know why the counter-curse doesn’t work, and I don’t know what you think I can do if all your leading experts and Healers couldn’t fix him.”

“Draco,” Pansy said. She inclined her head slightly towards Harry. “I think you’re underestimating your… unique capacity in this situation.”

Draco’s eyes widened.

Harry caught on immediately, and he twisted a hand in the Draco’s robes anxiously. Scrimgeour was a ruthless politician, determined to stay in power at all costs. It just so happened that their goals were in alignment right now; namely, defeating Voldemort. Harry wanted to believe it might be possible to use that to bring him back from the slippery road he’d started down, but… he’d put _innocents_ in Azkaban. There was no way he could be trusted with the knowledge of what Harry and Draco were. He’d seen what Harry was capable of. They couldn’t risk exposing Draco to him, too.

“Draco,” he said.

Draco gave him a small, warning shake of his head. “I’ll try,” he said. “My wand, Minister?”

Scrimgeour summoned Draco’s wand, holding it out to him.

Draco took it with obvious relief. He pointed it at Carrow, his lips moving silently. Just for show, of course; there was no magic passing through his wand. Instead, it gathered in Draco’s hands, in the pathways that coursed through his body, just like in the Room of Requirement. But Harry had channelled it out, then, and used the frightening power to create thousands of roses out of nothing.

This time, Draco used it, and the stone statue melted back into a man.

~*~

Narcissa was cleared by a St Mungo’s Healer, and sent back to Hogwarts for her protection. The rest of them Flooed back to the Ministry, and were relegated to the hallway outside the Minister’s office.

Draco watched Harry kicking his heels on the hard bench. Dumbledore had been sequestered with the Minister for almost an hour now, and Harry’s frustration with the situation was palpable.

At least, Draco thought, it was a step up from the state he had been in after the storm; shaking like a leaf, clinging to Draco like he was a child. But it had given Draco an excuse to hold him again, and, selfishly, he wanted it back. The space between them _hurt_. Harry had forgiven him; from the heart, even, and tolerated his embrace. But the love that had once shone in those bright green eyes was gone.

And he wasn’t sure he could live with that.

Pansy took one look at his face and stood. “There’s a cafeteria on the fifth floor. I’ll get us all some tea, shall I? Hermione, Weasley, come and help me carry them?”

Weasley frowned, but Granger elbowed him and said, “We’ll grab some snacks, too. Harry, love? Can we get you anything?”

He glanced up, and Draco’s breath caught in his throat. He’d always noticed Potter, of course, under those ugly glasses and the oversized, threadbare clothes. But now it seemed as if Harry grew more and more attractive every day, and it was nothing to do with the new (already slightly shabby) clothes, or his increasing use of eye charms instead of glasses. Though, without the glasses, his eyes really were remarkably green.

“Just tea, thanks,” Harry said. Granger touched his shoulder as they went past, and he smiled up at her.

Granger’s face fell, and she met Draco’s eyes. His heart dropped. They both knew that smile wasn’t real. It wasn’t the smile that lit Harry’s face from within, brightening his beautiful green eyes. Draco couldn’t help wondering how long it had been since that particular smile had graced his face. Since before Malfoy Manor, probably.

Was this how it felt to be Harry, he wondered; this constant, heavy burden of guilt? Questioning his own decisions, wondering if there was anything, anything at _all_ , he could have done to have spared Harry the horror of those dungeons? Wishing, more than anything, that he could have taken Harry’s place in that cell?

But he was a Slytherin, and a Malfoy. He was all too aware of the futility of regret. All they had now was the future, and he was determined to make Harry’s future a reality.

It took every ounce of courage he possessed to take a seat next to his ex-lover, and he almost gave up when Harry tensed at their sudden proximity. But he couldn’t. Harry deserved to know how grateful he was, at the very least. “I wanted to say thank you,” he said, quietly. “For coming after me today. For believing in me.”

Harry didn’t look at him. “I thought you might have lied,” he said, apropos of nothing. “About White Mages, the bond. All of it.”

A lump formed in Draco’s throat. “It wasn’t a lie.”

“You made a sanctuary in my mind,” Harry continued, almost as if he hadn’t heard him. “Do you want to know what I was thinking about, while you were torturing me?”

Draco recoiled. “Harry,” he said. “I am so _sorry_.”

“I was thinking about you,” Harry said, ignoring him. “About your smile. The real one; the one you only give me when no one else is watching. The way you melt under me when I kiss you. The way you made it all about _my_ pleasure when you fucked me.” He paused. “The way you told me you loved me, in Dumbledore’s office.”

Draco dug his nails into his palms, fighting tears. They rose up anyway, blurring his vision.

“It’s still there in my mind. The sanctuary,” Harry said. “But it’s open again, now. Like – like I let you back in, when I called up that storm.” He paused. “It’s not going away, is it? The bond. It’s always going to be there.”

Draco had to swallow several times before he could speak. “Yes. It’s – yes.”

Harry nodded, and stared at the opposite wall.

“That’s how I knew you’d forgiven me,” Draco said, desperate to keep him talking. “When you pulled on our bond, and the Wild Magic responded, and I was able to ground myself.”

Harry glanced at him sideways. “You said that before, when we were in the infirmary. You said you couldn’t ground yourself. That I was killing you.”

“You were,” Draco said, and Harry flinched. “It wasn’t your fault,” Draco said, hastily. “I betrayed you. I renounced our relationship. Hurt you. And I never explained… there’s so much more you need to know about our – the bond.”

Harry sighed. “All right.”

Draco’s heart leapt. “All right?” he echoed. Harry nodded, and Draco sat up straighter, clasping his hands together. It was ridiculous, but he felt like a nervous virgin on his first date. He wanted _so badly_ to get this right, to make it better between them. “I told you the bond is symbiotic, yes? You access Air Magic through me, and you can draw as much as you want through me. As much as you can handle, which is apparently a hell of a lot more than we thought.”

“You’re not kidding,” Harry muttered.

“But _only_ as long as I’m grounded,” Draco said. “You can’t draw on the Wild Magic unless I’m grounded, not without killing me. Conversely, I can access the Wild magic directly, but only, it seems, when _you_ let me.”

Harry frowned. “What does that mean?”

“Your negative emotions,” Draco explained, “like anger, or – or hurt. I think they block the bond between us. It makes sense; the symbiotic nature of the bond demands an equal relationship. You rely on me to be grounded to use Air Magic. I have a direct link to Earth Magic which enables that, but that inequality means that you have the power to cut me off from the Earth. To stop me from grounding myself, maybe even from using Earth Magic at all.”

“So when I tried to draw on the Wild Magic in the infirmary –”

“You were forcing magic through a closed conduit,” Draco agreed. “Ripping me apart.”

Harry sighed heavily. “Bloody hell. It’s never fucking easy, is it?”

“Magic never bestows a gift without a price,” Draco agreed.

“Gift,” Harry echoed, bitterly. “Some fucking gift. At least you can return a defective broomstick.”

Draco shook his head quickly. “We’re not –”

“It may as well be,” Harry said, talking over him. Then he twitched, looking more than a little spooked.

Draco swallowed, sliding further down the bench, away from him. “Sorry,” he whispered.

Harry shrugged it off irritably. “I just meant _I’m_ defective. I have no control over myself when I get angry. I never have. Dawlish is right, I as good as murdered Rookwood. Scrimgeour’s probably in there now deciding whether or not to throw me in Azkaban. And now with this bond, I could kill you, and I probably will.”

“You won’t,” Draco said. “Not now you know.”

Harry stared at him. “Did you not see me today? I could have destroyed the entire city without blinking! Dumbledore’s wards couldn’t have stopped me. I’m not sure anything could have.” He shuddered, and Draco couldn’t help himself. He reached out and grasped Harry’s hand tightly, relieved when Harry didn’t pull away.

“I did stop you,” he said, quietly. “Remember?”

Harry blew out a hard breath. “I remember. But I’ve never been that angry before. I just wanted to _destroy_. I wasn’t even thinking about you. And if my anger blocks the bond, then I stopped you grounding yourself, which means I hurt you.”

“No,” Draco said. “You were angry, but it was on my behalf. It didn’t stop me grounding. I could feel your magic, making sure I was all right before you drew on the Wild Magic. You didn’t even let the storm touch me. It tore through everything else – every _one_ else –”

Harry winced. “Sorry.”

“But you didn’t hurt them, either. You didn’t even hurt Rookwood. You just sent him away. And you made me the eye of your storm, so that not even a drop of rain touched me. You’re not dangerous, Harry. Madam Pomfrey was right. Your capacity for love is incredible. It’s just not in you to hurt anyone.” He paused, grief and regret roughening his voice. “Not like me.”

Harry’s expression changed, became something Draco didn’t understand.

It was frustrating. He’d been trained from an early age to read people; their expressions, tone of voice, body language. Harry had always been pathetically easy to read, wearing his heart on his sleeve as he did. It was why Draco had always considered himself a master at riling up his nemesis. Potter practically _handed_ his enemies the tools to hurt him.

But (and there was the rub) he _didn’t_ , really. There was so much more to Harry Potter than met the eye. Far more than most people suspected, simmering under the surface. It was one of the many reasons Draco had fallen in love with him; for that complexity of emotion, the secrets in his eyes. The enormous, bottomless pit in his heart, of need, and love, and yearning.

“You did hurt me,” Harry said, slowly. “You were cold, and cruel. You put on the masks I used to think was all there were to Draco Malfoy, and you used them to hurt me. But they’re not you, are they? They’re just something you use. Wield, like a weapon.”

Draco sighed, pushing a hand through his hair. How beautifully ironic, that just when he’d decided Harry was not the open book he pretended to be, he decided Draco _was_.

“Yes,” he said, simply. “Your courtship was a gamble. We both knew that. A battle of wills. I never intended to fall in love with you, but you captured my heart, and gave me hope and love and a safe place to be the person I _wanted_ to be, with you. But it doesn’t change who I really am, Harry. Just what I show _you_.”

Harry frowned. “You showed me everything, when you told me you loved me.” It wasn’t a question.

Feeling raw, stripped to the bone, Draco nodded.

“The Death Eater, that’s not you,” Harry continued. “It’s just another one of your masks. A lie. You defected, and then you didn’t renege on it at the Manor, even when it would have been the easier choice.”

Draco shook his head, his heart aching. Even now, Harry wanted to believe the best of him, and he was wrong. “It wouldn’t have been easier,” he argued. “A few weeks ago, maybe. I might not have even hesitated. I considered a very similar scenario, at first. Pretending to return your feelings, making you trust me and then offering you up to the Dark Lord.”

Harry winced. “So why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t trust myself,” Draco admitted. “I worried that engaging that deeply, that intimately, in the dance would mean losing myself in you. And that’s exactly what I did. That’s why reneging on my defection wasn’t the easier choice. Even _acting_ as if I’d betrayed you –” His voice broke, and he looked away, ashamed.

“But you didn’t,” Harry said, quietly. “That’s what matters, Draco. What you _chose_. You told me that. It’s our choices, our actions, which define us. That’s why you’re not a Death Eater, even though you have the Mark, and it’s why you’re not like your father, even though you grew up in his shadow. Your mother told the Minister that your heart is innocent of the evil your father brought home with him, and I – I think she was right.”

“I’m not innocent,” Draco said, his voice a rough rasp. “Merlin, Harry! How can you not understand that, after everything I did to you? People have gone to Azkaban for far less! You should have let the Minister put me on trial.”

Harry’s face darkened. “Fuck, no. Scrimgeour’s already allowed too many miscarriages of justice in his name. I’m not going to let him continue in mine. Besides, you were arrested for Carrow’s murder, not the use of an Unforgivable. I’m not going to stand back and let you go to Azkaban for something you didn’t do. I promised to protect you once you defected, and I won’t go back on my word.”

Draco stared at him. “It wasn’t just an Unforgivable, Harry. I don’t deserve –”

Harry cut him off with a sharp gesture. “You defected. You saved me, and Tonks. But none of that would have mattered to the Wizengamot, or people like Rookwood. All they’d see is your Dark Mark, and you’d be a target for every single guard and visitor to Azkaban with a grudge against Death Eaters.”

“That’s very cynical, Harry,” Draco said, slowly.

Harry shrugged. “Rookwood used his fists on you. That was wrong, Draco. You were in Auror custody. You should have been protected. You should have had your _mother_ with you. I won’t be a part of that kind of corruption, not if I can help it.”

“Harry,” Draco said, and then stopped. “How do you know what he did to me?”

Harry didn’t reply. If anything, he looked puzzled by the question. Draco felt cold. It was hardly a leap to assume an Auror had harmed a Death Eater while in custody. But it was a rare wizard that would leap to _fists_ and not _wand_. Even Harry, who had grown up with Muggles.

Harry, who had grown up with _Muggles_.

“He hit me, you’re right,” he acknowledged. “But I did much, much worse to you, and without punishment. Maybe it was poetic justice. Whoever hit you, Harry… that was not justice.”

Harry’s face closed off. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Draco tried to breathe. “What I know is that you recognised something – in what I did, or said – that no one else did. Rookwood healed the bruises, afterwards. But you knew. Your relatives didn’t just neglect you, did they? They hurt you. How did no one _know_ about this?”

“It’s no one’s business but mine, that’s why,” Harry said, stiffly. “Anyway, it’s in the past. It stopped when I started at Hogwarts.”

Draco began to shake. Not just once, then. Perhaps Harry’s whole life. “So your relatives only had the courage to abuse a defenceless child?” he demanded. “Why does that not surprise me? You were a _baby_ when your parents died! Dumbledore should have protected you! Instead, he left an infant in the hands of monsters; an act of such deliberate and callous cruelty I’m surprised he didn’t just kill you the night your parents died! But then, he had to make sure you lived, didn’t he? To raise you and mould you to be his sacrifice on the altar of his war –”

“It’s not just his war,” Harry said, flatly. Draco flinched, painfully aware that he’d gone too far. Harry was not his to be indignant over, anymore. “And it’s my sacrifice to make.”

Draco stared at him. He had been allowed the barest glimpse into Harry’s childhood, and it filled him with horror. However much Harry’s life had improved since coming to Hogwarts, it could not _possibly_ be enough to make sacrificing his life now at all worth it. His life had just barely begun.

He felt his hands curl into fists. He might not be able to call Harry his anymore, but that didn’t mean he was going to watch from the sidelines as the Chosen One died obediently on Dumbledore’s timetable.

“A noble sentiment, Potter,” he bit out, “but I haven’t saved your life twice now just to let you throw it away.”

“You keep saying that, but it’s not up to you!” Harry snapped back. “It’s not up to anyone but me, and I’m not going to let Voldemort take over the world because I was too afraid to do the right thing!”

“You think giving up is the right thing?” Draco retorted, furiously. “What the hell kind of Gryffindor are you? Have you even thought about researching another way? You had Granger burning the candle at both ends to find a solution to our magic when you thought it might hurt _me_! And now Dumbledore tells you to go out and get yourself killed, and you don’t even _hesitate_?” He sneered. “Oh, wait, I lie. That is exceptionally Gryffindor-ish of you. Or should I say stupid? It seems to be one and the same.”

Harry didn’t respond to the mocking words. “You think there’s another way?” he asked, frowning. “But Dumbledore said –”

“Our esteemed Headmaster has decided that there is only one possible interpretation of the prophecy, and only one possible way for it to be fulfilled.”

Harry blinked at him. “He told you the prophecy?”

“In an attempt to convince me to let you walk to your death, yes,” Draco said. “In which endeavour, naturally, he was unsuccessful. He is manipulating people and events to make sure it goes the way _he_ thinks it has to, but you don’t have to accept his interpretation, Harry. You can find another way. The prophecy will be fulfilled. Such is the nature of prophecies. But Dumbledore’s interpretation is not the only one. It is, in fact, fundamentally flawed.”

“Why?” Harry said. “You don’t think I’m the ‘one with the power to kill the Dark Lord’?”

“I think you were not the only one the prophecy could have applied to,” Draco said. Harry nodded. That was not new information to him, then. “But Dumbledore’s interpretation is that neither of you can die while the other survives. That’s not what the prophecy actually says.”

Harry’s brow wrinkled. “I don’t understand. Dumbledore’s never said... if he thinks I can’t die, why did he tell me I had to?”

“Because, I think, he has always believed you would be the one to die at the Dark Lord’s hand.”

“Either must die at the hand of the other,” Harry murmured.

“Exactly. Your death would destroy the Horcrux inside you, which would leave the Dark Lord vulnerable. But because he took your blood for his resurrection ritual, your mother’s sacrifice runs in his veins now, too, anchoring you to this life. That’s powerful magic, Harry. An anchor like that means that if the Dark Lord tried to kill you, it just might not stick. Dumbledore’s pet theory is that you have to give your life willingly, and without knowledge of the anchor, to come back.”

Harry looked at him in slow, dawning horror. “But if you’ve – why did you _tell_ me, if I was supposed to die not knowing?”

Draco’s lip curled. “Because you are not supposed to die! The prophecy clearly states that neither of you can _live_ while the other survives. Not die.”

“But that’s the same thing!” Harry cried, exasperated. “If I’m not living, then I’m dead, aren’t I?”

“Not necessarily,” Draco retorted. “How a prophecy is worded is crucial to the interpretation. It says you can’t live while the Dark Lord survives, but clearly he _is_ alive, and so are you. Maybe what it really means is – would you call it living, when the shadow of war hangs over us? When fear is our constant companion, when a Dark Lord relentlessly pursues you, threatening your life and the lives of your loved ones, when your childhood was stolen from you, your parents murdered, leaving you with abusive relatives and an old man watching from afar, manipulating your life from the very beginning, so that by the time you came to Hogwarts he was already shaping you for that one day in the not so distant future, the only part of your life that matters to him: your death. Is that living, Harry?”

Harry was silent.

“I’ve seen the future, too,” Draco said, gentling his tone. “The Dark Lord _will_ fall, in the end. But you can choose whether you see that future or not.”

Harry looked at him. “You’ve seen the future? How?”

Draco smiled. “Pansy has a small talent for Divination, and a huge amount of determination to see me safe. She’s been doing some scrying into my future. There were so many paths that led to death and ruin. But I chose _you_ , Harry, and you will defeat the Dark Lord, and you _will_ survive.”

“But how can I,” Harry said, “when you’ve taken away the only path open to me, to come back with my mother’s sacrifice?”

“There is another way,” Draco said. “There must be, or the prophecy would not be what it is. You _can_ defeat him and live. I’ve seen it.”

Harry’s eyes began to shine.

~*~

It was late afternoon, and the enchanted window opposite the Minister’s office showed the London skyline splashed with the brilliant colours of sunset. Harry had devoured three pumpkin pasties and two cups of tea, and he sat nibbling on a biscuit as the London Eye turned slowly, light dappling through the axles.

He must have drifted off at some point, because the next thing he knew, Hermione was saying, “Harry, _Harry_ ,” and he jerked upright, wiping at the corner of his mouth.

“Wha –?” He blinked around at his friends, and noticed Pansy passing Draco a handkerchief. Draco used it to wipe at the shoulder of his robes, and Harry felt his cheeks heat up. “Fuck,” he said. “I wasn’t –?”

“Drooling on Malfoy’s robes?” Ron said helpfully, eyebrows up. “’Fraid so, mate.”

“Merlin’s balls,” Harry sighed. “Sorry, Draco.”

But Draco just smiled at him, looking shyly pleased. Harry realised, with a flooding sense of shame, that Draco didn’t mind that he’d drooled all over him. He was just happy that Harry had trusted him enough to fall asleep on his shoulder.

Fuck. _Fuck_. This whole situation had gotten way out of hand, and he had no one to blame but himself. He’d gone too far, given Draco the absolute assurance that his feelings were real, and that had given Draco permission to let himself return those feelings. Only there were no feelings to return. Anything that Harry might have (possibly) begun to think could be between them was over. Events had overtaken him before he could fool himself into thinking a relationship with Draco Malfoy was anything but the height of stupidity, and that was a _good_ thing.

“Harry,” Dumbledore said.

He spun to see the Headmaster standing in the doorway. “Professor! What happened? Where’s Scrimgeour?”

“The Minister is on his way to a press conference in the Atrium,” Dumbledore said. “He has kindly allowed us the use of his Floo to return to Hogwarts. I have sent an owl to Professor McGonagall; she should open the Floo in my office shortly. In the meantime, might I suggest we relocate to the Minister’s office to wait?”

“What’s the press conference about, sir?” Harry asked, as they followed him into the room.

Dumbledore busied himself with conjuring a huge, squashy armchair by the fire. “I am afraid, my dear boy, that it is as we feared,” he said, settling into the armchair. “Your use of such powerful magic did not go unnoticed, despite our best efforts to contain it. The Minister’s personal Owl Intercept Office has received no fewer than fifty-nine owls from concerned citizens in the Greater London Area already, including twenty-five from reporters. And that is nothing to the number the Auror and Hit Wizard Departments have received. The Minister has called the press conference to put everyone’s fears to rest.”

“What is he going to tell them?” Hermione asked, looking worried. “Not the truth, surely?”

“As much as it pains me to say it, no,” Dumbledore sighed. “The wizarding public is not ready for a truth like this. Especially when we ourselves continue to be ignorant of the true import of your magical outbursts, Harry.”

Harry carefully didn’t look at Draco. “What is Scrimgeour going to say?”

“That it was a result of an experiment the Unspeakables were performing to aid in the fight against You-Know-Who. An incident of this magnitude is bound to come to our enemy’s attention sooner rather than later, and we cannot afford for him to discover it was you. We thought it best to give him the false impression that the Ministry is working on something very secret and powerful to defeat him, thus diverting his attention from you and from Hogwarts for a time. It should also serve to give the wizarding public a renewed belief again in the Ministry’s ability to keep the forces of evil at bay.”

Harry scowled. “They’re not keeping the forces of evil at bay, though, are they?”

“They are doing what they can,” Dumbledore said, gently. “And though I do not agree with every action Scrimgeour’s administration has taken, he is trying, at least. This is a difficult time. I fear Miss Delacour was right. More and more of those in positions of power are being corrupted.”

There was a sober silence as everyone contemplated that.

“I do have some good news, at least,” Dumbledore told them. “You will be pleased to hear that the charges against Mr Malfoy have been dropped. The Minster has asked me to pass on his personal apology for the error. Amycus Carrow will be tried by the Wizengamot tomorrow.”

“Good,” Pansy said, with feeling. “I hope he rots in Azkaban.”

“Hell, yes,” Ron said, rubbing his thigh where the curse had torn his muscle. Like everyone else affected by the Scorched Earth Curse, it had taken far longer than it should have to heal.

“Indeed,” Dumbledore said. “Unfortunately, that means Mr Finch-Fletchley’s trial will have to be postponed again. In light of that, I have requested it be put back to next week, so your exams are not affected. The Minister has agreed, and Madam Primrose is in the process of applying to the Wizengamot for special consideration, so that Mr Finch-Fletchley may go home to his father until his trial resumes. He has been languishing in the Auror cell-block for far too long already. I intend to allow him to sit the exams by correspondence. He has missed several weeks of classes, of course, but according to his father and Miss Abbott, he has been determined to keep up with his studies.”

Harry nodded. It wasn’t that he didn’t care about Justin, or justice for Draco, but frankly, there were more important things on his mind right now. “And Rookwood?”

“Ah, yes,” Dumbledore said. “The Minister has agreed not to make Auror Rookwood’s disappearance public, for the time being.”

Harry frowned. “What about his family?”

“They will be informed, of course, though the details will remain confidential to protect your identity.”

“My identity?” Harry said. He barely noticed when Draco’s hand settled over his. “I sent him back in time. I have no idea how to get him back, which means he’s _dead_. And you’re covering it up?”

“It won’t be covered up, Harry,” Dumbledore assured him. “When the war is over, there will be time then for the Wizengamot to hear the case.”

“Right,” Harry said, flatly. _When the war is over_. When he was dead, and it didn’t matter anymore what he’d done. Never mind Rookwood’s family or friends. Never mind Dawlish. As long as Harry was alive and unimpeded for the final battle…

“You-Know-Who is on the move,” Dumbledore said, his voice grave. “I do not believe he was ready for open conflict, but after Malfoy Manor, it is likely he will attempt to bring his timetable forward. We cannot afford to be divided, or weakened, when he comes. War is no longer on our doorsteps; it is through the door.”

Harry nodded silently. They had passed through the crucible of the storm and come out the other side, a little worse for wear, but otherwise unharmed. Clear blue skies overhead. But that was just an illusion. The truth was, they were in the eye of the storm, and it was fast approaching again. Voldemort was gathering his forces, preparing for battle, and they had to do the same.

He wasn’t going to lie to himself. Prophecy aside, Dumbledore’s lies and manipulations aside, there was a _Horcrux_ inside him. Living off his soul, like cancer, or poison ivy, slowly strangling to death everything that was essentially Harry. Eating away his soul, piece by piece.

It had to die, one way or another.

Harry wanted so badly to believe that Draco was right. But since when had his life ever been that easy? He would do what he had to do. If there was no other way to remove it, he would die, to kill the Horcrux inside him.

The Boy Who Lived would dance his last dance with Death, and there would be no slipping through its fingers, this time.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for your comments and kudos! Enjoy! xx

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

**SOUL MAGIC**

_Two souls dancing in the dark,_  
 _Waltzing through the night like the_  
 _Aurora Borealis –_  
 _Swaying to and fro_  
 _to the music of the wind_  
~ Ayanna B. Wilde

Part One

The sun beat down relentlessly on the Quidditch pitch. Sweat trickled into Harry’s eyes, and he blinked it away, scrubbing his hand on his robes in a vain attempt to get a better grip on his wand.

Already that morning they’d suffered through Snape’s written component of the Defence Against the Dark Arts exam; a lengthy, gruelling twenty-page paper with two essays and fifteen short-answer questions. It had taken three hours, two pots of ink, and Harry’s wand-hand had been cramped up by the end of it.

This afternoon was the second part, and over half the class were unconscious or incapacitated already.

Harry could feel the Wild Magic trembling just on the edge of his consciousness. As if now that he knew of its existence – how to use it, how to draw it through Draco – it was calling to him. It _wanted_ him to use it. But he was competing with his fellow students for a better grade, not fighting Death Eaters. He couldn’t afford to make any more mistakes like Auror Rookwood. The Wild Magic was dangerous. Especially when he used it, with all the fury of a damaged soul.

Besides, he was determined to win on his own merit, with his own magic. And after everything that had happened over the last few weeks, Harry was actually enjoying himself.

The Quidditch pitch had been turned into a temporary battleground, with conveniently-placed rocks and trees and bushes, and even a couple of caves. Some wide open spaces had been left. Across from one of these, Ron huddled behind a big boulder.

Harry peered over his own.

“We’d make a great team!” Ron shouted.

Harry considered that. They were being graded on their spell-work, strategy, use and knowledge of their own and others’ strengths and weaknesses, and, of course, how long they actually lasted. It was every man for themselves, but teamwork had been a particularly useful strategy early on. He’d been ambushed by a group of Hufflepuffs, and Neville and Luna had helped him take out the whole lot of them. But then Luna had been caught by a non-verbal Sleeping Curse (Harry suspected Draco, but there’d been no sign of him), and they’d gotten separated.

He wasn’t sure where Hermione was, but the last time he’d stumbled on Ron, they’d been together.

“Hermione with you?” he called.

There was a very brief hesitation, and then Ron yelled, “Nope! She’s out.”

“All right,” Harry said, keeping a sharp eye on his surroundings. The Quidditch pitch was huge, but sound carried, and they were bound to be attracting attention by now. “Count of three?”

“Deal,” Ron called. “One.”

“Two,” Harry said, and rose to a crouch.

Ron called out, “Three!” and they both stood. Harry lunged to the side just as Ron shot off a disarming spell, then threw himself to the ground. Two more spells whizzed over his head. _There_. And – yes, _there_.

He smiled. They’d been hoping to catch him in a crossfire, then.

He aimed for Hermione first. She was well hidden in a dense thicket of shrubs, but only Hermione knew and could cast _Levicorpus_ non-verbally. He cast his own non-verbal spell. _Immobulus_. She couldn’t move quickly enough. Instead, she got a shield up, just a split second too late. Harry was already rolling. A spell from Ron exploded the ground next to him.

“ _Expelliarmus_!” Harry shouted.

The third member of their team – Parvarti, if Harry wasn’t mistaken – yelped as her wand was snatched from her hand. It came sailing in Harry’s direction. He grabbed it out of the air, twisting as he did to dodge Ron’s next attempt at disarming him.

He lunged for the cover of an oak tree. It had an enormous trunk, and he rested there for a moment, listening. Parvarti was disarmed and therefore out, as per the rules of the exam. But Hermione wasn’t. He heard a rustling from her direction. Probably Ron, trying to get to her.

He pointed his wand around the tree and murmured, “ _Stupefy_.”

“Harry!” Ron yelled, outraged. “She was defenceless!”

“And now she’s unconscious, and out,” Harry said, cheerfully. “You _did_ say she was out, right, Ron? I guess you were mistaken, but I fixed that for you. You’re welcome.”

Ron grumbled something too low to hear, and Harry grinned.

Then it was silent again.

Harry dropped to his hands and knees, crawling quickly around the back of some low-lying shrubs. He paused, then, waiting. It had just occurred to him that Ron might have cast a muffling spell on his shoes when he felt a wand press into the back of his neck.

He froze.

“Hand it over,” Ron said. “Or I’ll _Stupefy_ you.”

Harry hesitated. If he threw himself down, onto his shoulder, he might just be able to get off a spell. But Ron would have time for one too, and at such close range, it wouldn’t miss. Unless he cast a shield, of course. _Protego_ would do, because it would be _Stupefy_ for sure; Ron wouldn’t think of another in time –

“ _Stupefy_!”

Ron crumpled, and Harry spun and grabbed him. He managed to hold onto him, keeping his unconscious body upright and between him and the direction the spell had come from. “Draco?” he said, cautiously.

“Up here,” came the reply.

Harry looked up. Sure enough, Draco was perched in the branches of the oak tree, one leg swinging idly, his wand dangling between two fingers. The sun was dappling through the thick green leaves, touching his skin and hair with light, playful fingers. He looked indecently beautiful _._ Harry’s breath caught.

“If I’d wanted to take you out, you’d be out,” Draco said.

Harry tilted his head in acknowledgment. He’d been in Draco’s direct line of sight for several minutes, at least.

Draco dropped to the ground, as graceful as a cat. A large cat, Harry thought; a predator. “I’m impressed, Potter. Using your best friend as a shield? How very Slytherin of you.”

Harry smiled with his teeth. “You forget. I know you, Draco. You’re the Prince of Slytherin, and you wouldn’t use your best friend as a shield, even in the controlled conditions of an exam.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “You’re probably right. What does that make you, then?”

“Someone who doesn’t trust as easily, the second time around,” Harry said.

Draco flinched, and Harry felt guilty immediately. After all, the only reason he’d ever use Ron as a shield was if he trusted, implicitly and absolutely, that his opponent wouldn’t hurt him. And _that_ was a train of thought Harry was not going to follow, because he did _not_ trust Draco.

He eased Ron to the ground and stepped over him, keeping his wand at the ready.

“Fair enough,” Draco said, after a moment. “In the interests of building trust between us again, then, I should tell you that we’re the only ones left. Everyone else has been taken out.”

“Seamus and Pansy?” Harry asked, because they’d been barricaded together in one of the caves, and he hadn’t even tried to get at them. Draco smiled, and Harry regarded him in surprise. “You?”

“It’s an exam,” Draco said, stepping forward. Harry held his ground. “You didn’t see them when the Death Eaters invaded Hogwarts. They work together far too well. If we’d allowed them to wait until we’d thinned out the ranks, they would’ve been a formidable threat. I convinced Thomas and Macmillan to help, and after it was done, I took them out, too.”

He was obviously pleased with himself, and Harry felt an involuntary thrill of arousal. The strength of his reaction shocked him, and he took a quick step backwards. Draco’s eyes narrowed, focusing inevitably on the rather – prominent evidence.

“Oh,” he said, and there was just enough uncertainty and confusion in his voice that Harry regained his own confidence.

He took three steps forward, catching Draco’s wand-hand as it rose, pulling it behind his back. Then he crowded Draco backwards, pressing him up against the rough bark of the oak tree. He paused for a moment, searching Draco’s gaze. There was no declination in his eyes; only longing.

Harry let himself rock forward, just a little, relishing the slide of his erection against the dip of Draco’s hipbone. It wasn’t the same as being naked, of course, soft, smooth skin rubbing up against each other, but –

 _What are you_ doing?

He caught himself just as he was about to close the distance between their lips. They might be bonded by the Wild Magic, but that didn’t mean he had to give into his baser urges. It was just sex. It wouldn’t _mean_ anything. It wouldn’t even serve a purpose, now. Draco had defected, and Harry didn’t love him. It was just sex.

It was _great_ sex, Harry thought, rocking forward again, shifting his feet apart for better leverage. Draco’s head was tipped back against the tree, eyes closed, mouth open a little. Harry could feel the jut of Draco’s erection against his hip, and it spiked his arousal higher.

He wanted to kiss him.

Pushing Draco harder against the tree, he pinned him there as he lowered his head to bite Draco’s neck, sinking his teeth into the soft skin. Draco cried out, his free hand digging into Harry’s hair. Harry sucked and laved, teasing at the bite mark until it was red and hot under his tongue. He pulled back, then, just enough to slide his hand down between them and cup Draco through his robes. Draco whined a little, rising up on his toes.

“You want this,” Harry said in satisfaction, gripping just a little too tightly. Draco shuddered and writhed against him, caught on the knife edge of pain and pleasure, trying to pull away and push into his grip simultaneously.

“H-Harry –”

It was incredibly satisfying, to reduce Draco to this; shallow, panting breaths and helpless lust. Harry dropped his wand, ripping Draco’s robes apart. He knew where all the buttons and clasps were now, the seams and folds, the weakest parts of the fabric to tear. He thrust his knee between Draco’s thighs, forcing them apart, and slipped his hand inside Draco’s tunic, dipping between his cheeks and searching for that hidden place that was his and _only_ his.

Draco cried out, fingers digging into Harry’s arms. “ _Harry_ –”

Harry covered his lips with his own, pushing in his fingertip as he did so, just a little, dry. Draco jerked, swearing. He buried his face in Harry’s neck, sucking a mark of his own into Harry’s skin.

Harry groaned, grabbing his hair and pulling his head back, claiming Draco’s lips again, roughly, biting his way inside, filling Draco’s mouth with his tongue. _Punishing_ him, hot and slick and teeth clacking together, so good that Harry was lost, consumed in the kiss that went on and on and on…

But not so much that he didn’t notice when Draco’s grip shifted a little.

 _He still has his wand_ , Harry remembered. Fear and exhilaration surged through him, and he grinned into Draco’s mouth. Draco faltered briefly, giving Harry the time to flick his own wrist. The non-verbal summoning spell was one of the few he could manage with his own magic, and his wand flew up into his hand obediently. The Wild Magic didn’t like it, pushing forward through their bond, but he forced himself to _think_ , to form the incantation deliberately in his mind. Push his own power through his wand. It was odd, to be doing something consciously that had always been so unconscious.

He pulled back to meet Draco’s eyes as the disarming spell hit him, snatching his wand out of his hand.

“Naughty,” Harry murmured.

Draco looked startled, and then rueful. His hips shifted against Harry’s restlessly, eyes almost black with desire. A last-ditch attempt, then. He’d already known he was beaten. He _wanted_ to be beaten, to be taken –

“Very good, very good!” a loud, boisterous voice broke through their mutual haze. “Congratulations, Mr Potter! Last man standing!”

Harry jerked backwards. Draco whimpered, reaching for him, and it reminded Harry so forcibly of that awful moment in the infirmary that he snapped back to himself.

Oh, hell. What in Merlin’s name had he been _thinking_? Surely this wasn’t normal!

Professor Slughorn cleared his throat, as if only just registering the state they were in. “Er. I see. Mr Malfoy, if you could perhaps, ah – cover up?”

Draco flushed bright red and grabbed the torn edges of his robes, pulling them around himself.

Harry had never seen him so embarrassed, and suddenly he was furious. He whirled on Slughorn, raising his wand. How _dare_ he? Interrupting them, looking at Draco like this, seeing him this vulnerable, seeing what was _Harry’s_ –

Slughorn made a strangled noise, shocking Harry for the second time in as many minutes. _Bloody hell_ , he thought, lowering his wand quickly. Not again! What the fuck was _wrong_ with him?

“Harry,” Draco said, shakily.

Harry stiffened, but he didn’t dare look at him. He couldn’t. He ran instead, practically shoving Slughorn out of the way as he went.

~*~

The library was silent but for the sound of quills scratching against parchment. Hermione tapped her finger against her study notes as she reviewed the seven uses of the common poppy in love potions for their exam the next morning. She stopped when she realised she was reading the same paragraph over and over again.

Aggravated, she looked up at the reason for her distraction.

Harry was fidgeting in his seat. Hermione didn’t think he was even _attempting_ to study. She sighed. Merlin knew she couldn’t blame him, after everything that had happened. He’d barely looked them in the eye for days, and even now, he jumped at loud noises or sudden movements. Ron said he was having nightmares, too. Worse than usual.

Somehow, though, she didn’t think it was Malfoy Manor on his mind right now.

Ron met her eyes. Even he was looking annoyed, and she bent to rummage in her bag for her wand. She cast a careful Imperturbable spell around their table, and then asked, “Where’s your textbook, Harry?”

He startled, looking at her, and then around at the other tables. Hermione held up her wand in explanation. “Oh,” he said. “Right. I’m not using it anymore. I found out who the Half-Blood Prince is. I mean, Draco told me.”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open.

Ron’s eyes lit up. “Yeah?” he said, eagerly. “Go on, then! Anyone we’ve heard of?”

Hermione glared at him. The two of them were far too fascinated with whoever this Prince was. And _far_ too trusting for her peace of mind, frankly.

But Harry wasn’t smiling. “We should have known,” he said. “Who else would leave their old textbook in a cupboard in the Potions classroom? Who else spent their entire life in the dungeons experimenting with potions?”

Ron just shook his head, bewildered, but Hermione thought she was beginning to have an inkling. Her eyebrows rose. “You don’t mean…?”

“Apparently Snape’s mother’s maiden name was Prince,” Harry said. “And his dad was a Muggle, which makes him a half-blood. The Half-Blood Prince.”

“ _Snape_?” Ron’s voice squeaked in horror. “No. Oh, _fuck_ no! You can’t be serious!”

“I wish I wasn’t,” Harry said, with feeling. “And, by the way, that spell ‘for enemies’? It’s a bloody good thing I didn’t try it out on anyone in the middle of a battle. Draco says it practically cuts the victim to ribbons. Another of Snape’s sick inventions.”

Hermione pursed her lips. “Professor Snape is a Potions Master, Harry. He’s incredibly talented. He perfected the Wolfsbane potion for Remus, remember?”

Harry shrugged. “Probably because Dumbledore forced him to. He always hated the Marauders. I’m glad he’s locked up.”

Hermione sighed. She didn’t like the man either, but Dumbledore had admitted to ordering Snape to kill him. He was a spy for their side. Why couldn’t Harry see that? “So you’ve decided not to use the textbook?” she asked, instead of arguing. She would insist to her dying breath that using the old textbook was cheating, especially now she knew it was Snape’s. But as much as it galled her, Harry _had_ been doing well this year, and their Potions exam was tomorrow. It was just counterintuitive to stop using it now.

Harry hummed in agreement. He was fidgeting again, not really listening, his fingers playing over a bruise on his neck.

“Harry?” Hermione prompted, and he lifted his hand to his mouth and touched his lips, gazing into the distance.

“Oh, for –” Ron said, exasperated. “Just go fuck him already, will you? You’ve got the worst case of blue balls I’ve ever seen!”

Harry’s head snapped around, and Hermione slapped her boyfriend’s arm, horrified. “ _Ronald_ Weasley!”

“Ow,” Ron complained. “What? It’s bloody well true, and we all know it.”

“It’s _insensitive_ ,” she hissed. “He didn’t mean it like that, Harry. We know how awful this has been for you. You did everything you could, everything _right_. You convinced Draco to defect. You convinced Dumbledore to rescue his mother. You followed The Plan to the best of your ability. It wasn’t your fault, and it wasn’t his. It’s all right to feel the way you feel.”

“Just please don’t take it out on us,” Ron added helpfully, and she kicked him under the table. Hard. He yelped. “Her _mione_!”

“You are not helping,” she informed him.

Ron sighed. “Yeah. You’re right, honey.” Hermione’s breath caught at the careless endearment, and she ducked her head, smiling. “Look, mate,” Ron said, leaning forward. “You’ve been moping around all week, and that’s not fair on either of you. You don’t muck around with soul magic.”

Hermione sat up straighter, forgetting her blush entirely. She’d been _itching_ to research White Mages, but it hadn’t occurred to her that she might be able to do that without Malfoy’s mysterious book. “Soul magic?” she demanded.

Ron looked at her and winced. “Oh,” he said, apologetically. “I don’t, uh, actually know much about it. It’s not like other branches of magic. It’s just too rare. There’s reams of fiction about it, of course. Mum’s always reading one, sniffing about true love and ‘compatible souls’, but that’s just romantic crap. What I do know is that most of the scholars reckon a wizard’s core of magic _is_ his soul, or pretty much, and that’s bloody dangerous to mess about with. The pathways between Harry and Malfoy… that’s not a normal bond.” He turned back to Harry. “You have a bond that links your _souls_ , mate. There’s no denying that kind of connection.”

“So, what, I’m supposed to just ignore what he did to me?” Harry said, incredulously. “He hurt me.” Even to Hermione, the words sounded washed-out; less than half-hearted. He tried again. “He _tortured_ me!”

“But that’s not why you’re upset with him,” Hermione realised.

Harry was bristling instantly. “Why _else_ –?”

“He hurt you, yes,” she said. “I can’t even imagine how _awful_...” A lump formed in her throat, and she couldn’t continue for a moment. If it had been her – if Ron had betrayed her, tortured her – she didn’t know how she would even go on. “But Harry, you aren’t upset because of what he did. He was doing it on Voldemort’s orders, and he rescued you as soon as he could. You’re upset because of what he had to say. Denying your relationship, _laughing_ at it. That’s why you can’t forgive him, isn’t it?”

“You’re wrong,” Harry said, jaw tightening. “I have forgiven him. And why should I care that he denied our relationship? We don’t even have a relationship! I broke up with him, remember?”

Hermione blinked. “Yes. Of course. But I just assumed… you kissed him awake the next morning, after the battle.”

Harry flushed. “No, that was – I just needed to – to _feel_ the bond, to heal him. That seemed like the best way at the time.”

“Soul magic,” Ron agreed.

Harry rolled his eyes.

“You were kissing him on the hill outside Malfoy Manor,” Hermione pointed out.

Harry sighed explosively. “Fine, okay. Maybe we did make up. But it was all part of The Plan, and that’s over now. His mother’s safe, and he gave the other Slytherins a safe way out if they wanted it. It’s over. Whatever was between us doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Except it does,” Ron countered. “Your bond wasn’t part of The Plan, mate. No one could have predicted it. You’re just hurting yourself, and him, trying to deny it. Look at what happened this afternoon. You nearly fucked him up against a tree in the middle of our DADA exam!” He grimaced. “And with me lying not five feet away, too. Thanks for that.”

Harry flushed. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “I don’t know what got into me. But I’m not going to… the bond can’t force this on us!”

Ron shrugged. “Far as I can tell, nothing’s forcing you. You might not want to admit it, but I’d say DADA was a pretty big fucking clue. Malfoy’s practically panting for it, and so are you.”

Harry glared at him. “I am not! And even if I – it doesn’t matter. I’m a Horcrux. My soul’s corrupted –”

“Harry, _no_ ,” Hermione protested.

“There’s a _Horcrux_ clinging to my core,” he said, with awful weight. “Of course I am. And now Draco is linked to that. Not just that, he’s in love with me, and it’s all my fault. I seduced him; made him believe I loved him. How can I justify using him like that? Using his love for – for what? Sex? And all because of a soul-bond that’s more harmful than good, at least for him –”

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione breathed. She’d seen it coming, even as she’d hoped desperately it wouldn’t. But it was Harry, and it was Malfoy, and perhaps it had always been, tragically, inevitable. “Oh, sweetheart. You’re in love with him.”

There was a terrible silence.

“What?” Harry said, flatly.

“You’re not afraid of using him,” she said. “You’re afraid that you’re in love with him, and that your love will hurt him far more than if you had no feelings for him at all.”

Harry stared at her. His face was very pale. “I’m not,” he said, hoarsely. “I can’t be. No matter what I do, Voldemort will keep hunting me, because of that damned prophecy. So it’s either run forever, or stand and fight. I have to stand and fight, and not just because I’m a Horcrux. I have a responsibility to you, to Dumbledore, to the whole damn wizarding world. I’m the Chosen One, whether I like it or not.”

“You’re also Harry Potter,” Hermione said. “And you have a responsibility to your heart.”

“I have a responsibility to Draco’s heart!” Harry retorted, furiously. “He didn’t deserve what I did to him! And he certainly doesn’t deserve to be tied to someone who has more chance than anyone of dying in this fucking war!”

“You’re probably right,” Hermione said. “But don’t you think that should be his choice?”

~*~

Harry didn’t sleep that night. His friends’ words spun round and round in his head until he felt dizzy and sick with them.

Hermione, he could almost understand. Once she got an idea into her head, no matter how far-fetched, it was practically impossible to dissuade her from it. But he never would have thought _Ron_ would encourage him to pursue a relationship with Draco Malfoy. It was a bewildering shift in priorities, and he said as much at breakfast, the next morning.

Hermione looked up from Ron’s Potions textbook. She’d been using his since she’d forced hers on Harry the night before. (“ _Don’t be silly, you can’t just not_ study _, Harry. Don’t you_ want _to be an Auror?_ ” – to which, of course, he’d had no answer. He really wasn’t sure about that anymore.)

“Harry,” she said now, firmly, “we care about you, and we want you to be happy. Malfoy might be a –”

“Prat,” Ron offered, through a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Git. Bloody _bastard_.”

She tutted. “Yes, thank you, Ronald. The point is, he makes you happy, and we want that for you more than anything.”

Ron nodded in agreement, and Harry stared at them both. “You want me to be happy. With _Draco_.”

Hermione sighed. “He loves you, Harry. That storm in the Ministry, when he brought you back… we were all terrified. I really thought we were going to die, or lose you forever.”

“Sorry,” Harry muttered, guiltily.

Hermione shook her head. “We don’t blame you. You were protecting him. My point is, as frightening as that storm was, he only had eyes for you. He was so brave, and so gentle with you. He cares deeply for you, Harry. He has a vested interest in keeping you alive, in fact, which –”

“Makes him more than okay in our books,” Ron finished.

Harry sighed. Did they think he’d spent his whole life just longing to end it all? “ _Guys_ ,” he said, frustrated. “I don’t want to die.”

“Good,” Hermione said, briskly. “Then we need to do something about it. We need to find a way to get that _thing_ out of you. And I think we should enlist Draco’s help. He’ll know where to start. He might even have access to resources the Order doesn’t.”

Harry frowned. “Hermione…”

“He wants to help, Harry. He’d help even if you never told him how you really feel about him.”

“I know,” Harry said, reluctantly. “But that doesn’t mean it’s right. What if Voldemort goes after him? I’d be putting him directly in the line of fire. I don’t want anyone to die for me, least of all Draco.”

“Malfoy’s already _in_ the line of fire, mate,” Ron said, kindly enough. “He turned traitor. Snatched you right out from under Voldemort’s ugly, flat nose. Nothing he does now could possibly make Voldemort want to kill him more.”

Harry stared at him, horrified, and yet at the same time… oddly relieved. Ron was right, of course. He’d felt Voldemort’s fury at Draco’s betrayal. Felt his powerful desire to have Draco, instead of Wormtail, screaming under his wand.

He’d tried _so hard_ not to fall in love. He was the Boy Who Lived, and his connection to Voldemort put everyone around him in mortal danger. But, apparently, falling in love wasn’t something you could just choose. Somehow, while he’d been pretending to be in love with Draco, true love (messy, painful, and so good) had crept up on him.

He knew, now, what it was like to love someone with every fibre of his being. The idea of _losing_ him –

But it had been Draco’s choice to defect. Draco’s choice to rescue him from the Manor. And there was no guarantee his fate would have been any better under Voldemort’s iron fist. Quite probably it would have been far worse. Which meant… maybe he could date Draco with a clear conscience, after all.

The real question was, would Draco still want to date _him_?

~*~

After their Potions exam, Harry and Ron had a free afternoon to study while Hermione took her Arithmancy exam. Potions had been easier than Harry expected, which he attributed to all the study he’d done during the year. Strangely enough, the Half-Blood Prince had been a much better teacher than Snape himself, and certainly better than Slughorn, who quite obviously knew the theoretical techniques, and could follow a formula proficiently, but had no _feel_ for the subject.

Harry rather suspected that Dumbledore would never have invited Slughorn back to teach at Hogwarts if it hadn’t been for that memory. Then again, he could hardly claim to be impartial on the subject, could he?

He thought Slughorn might recognise that. His jovial, overly-friendly demeanour had diminished somewhat, in recent days. Of course, that might also have had something to do with how carried away Harry had gotten in their DADA exam. He couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Draco was obviously thinking about it, too. He had followed Harry with his eyes all day; at breakfast, in the halls, during Potions. Yearning, hungry. It was disconcerting, but also highly gratifying, and Harry found himself unconsciously preening under the attention.

But Draco took Arithmancy as well, and so Harry forced himself to practice his Charms while he waited.

Four hours. It was interminable.

“What the hell are they _doing_ in there, anyway?” he grumbled, three-and-a-half hours in. “Calculating the meaning of life?”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Ron said, absent-mindedly. “Forty-two.”

Harry snorted, recognising the reference. “Right, of course. ‘The meaning of life, the universe and everything’ is an Arithmancy sum.”

Ron glanced up at him. “Sure it is,” he said, looking puzzled. “Oh, you mean – Dad loves that book! He’s always reading bits of it out to us at dinner. Not that it’s realistic, of course. As if a Muggle compta could calculate that. It took a whole team of Unspeakables twenty years to figure it out.”

“Computer,” Harry corrected.

Ron frowned. “Sure?”

“Pretty sure,” Harry said. He waved his wand again, and groaned. Still twenty minutes to go. He was going to explode, and not in a good way. “This is ridiculous.”

“Just go, why don’t you?” Ron said. “You’re driving me up the wall, and Hermione will _kill_ me if I don’t get through this chapter. We have a deal: if I finish this, then I’ve just got one more to fit in tomorrow morning, so we can spend tonight together, if you know what I mean. We want to –”

“Ack!” Harry yelped. Madam Finch cleared her throat pointedly, and he winced. “Do you _mind_?” he hissed.

Ron smiled placidly. “Not at all. Now you know how _we_ feel.”

“I don’t inflict the details on you,” Harry said, in an injured tone.

“No, you just sit there _sighing_ and casting the Tempus Charm every five minutes, or practically undressing Malfoy with your eyes, or feeling him up in public with me _five feet away_ –”

“All right, all right!” Harry said, holding up his hands in surrender. “Geez!” Ron just grinned at him, and Harry snorted. “Fine, I’ll leave you in peace.” He gathered up his books, shoving Ron’s shoulder as he went past.

Ron just laughed, and Madam Finch started up from her seat, her expression forbidding. Ron buried his head in his textbook.

Harry made it to the Arithmancy classroom in no time, and then paced up and down the hallway impatiently until the door opened. Students began filing out, Hermione in the lead. She opened her mouth when she saw him, but his eyes caught on a glint of white-blond hair, and he forgot her entirely.

Draco stopped, blocking the doorway. Someone shoved him forward – two oblivious Ravenclaws comparing exam answers – and Harry closed the distance between them to wrap a hand around Draco’s wrist, tugging him gently to one side.

Draco swallowed, looking nervous and, despite himself, hopeful.

“I’m sorry,” Harry said.

Draco shook his head. “There’s nothing to –”

“You know there is,” Harry chided, and Draco gave a great sob of relief. He lunged forward, grabbing Harry’s face in his hands and kissing him desperately. Harry dug his fingers into Draco’s hips, hard enough to bruise. He _wanted_ bruises on Draco’s beautiful, flawless skin; wanted to claim him once and for all. He slid a hand up to thread his fingers through Draco’s hair, cupping the back of his head, holding him still as he deepened the kiss. “No more masks,” he said, when they pulled apart to breathe. He held Draco’s gaze. “No more dancing, understand? I want all of you, Draco.”

Draco nodded. “Yes.”

Harry wanted to kiss him again, but they were being watched, and the murmurs of the other students were becoming intolerable. They had to move this to a more private venue before they went too far. Again. He stepped back and took Draco’s wrist again, enjoying the feeling of fragile bones under soft skin. “Will you –?”

“Anything,” Draco agreed, quickly. “Anywhere.”

~*~

He took Draco to the seventh floor.

Draco started shaking his head as soon as he realised where they were going, trying to pull away, but Harry turned and wrapped his arms around him. “It’s _our_ Room, Draco,” he said. “It’s where we first made love.” He kissed him quickly, just a little peck on the lips. “It’s where we had our first proper date, with candles and music and chocolate. Remember?”

Draco was obviously trying not to smile. “How could I forget?”

Harry leaned in to nibble a little on Draco’s lower lip. “It’s where I first saw you naked.” Draco shivered involuntarily, and Harry eased away. “It’s where I licked your scars away after Justin attacked you.” He kissed Draco’s forehead, and then down behind his ear, where that horrific wound had pulsed Draco’s lifeblood out onto the ground while he watched. “It’s where you first made me question how Justin treated me.” He kissed Draco’s nose affectionately, and then his mouth again, sweet and chaste. “It’s where you taught me what it _really_ means to love someone.”

Draco was smiling properly now, his eyes bright. “And it’s where you saved my life, twice,” he murmured.

“Twice?” Harry echoed.

Draco paused to consider. “Three times,” he corrected himself. “The rose bushes, the ward to guard our retreat during the Invasion, and before that, the moment I opened the Vanishing Cabinet. I knew all I had to do was ask, and you would keep your word to protect me.”

Harry swallowed. “I’m glad. I was worried I hadn’t done enough to make you trust me. I’m so sorry I left you to make that choice alone.”

“I wasn’t, entirely,” Draco said. “I told you Pansy had a vision of the future. It was a True vision, using a powerful medium; you know the Mirror, on the fourth floor?”

“The one that –” Harry cut himself off, and then realised he didn’t have to do that anymore. Draco was on their side. “The one with the tapestry that hides the secret passage into Hogsmeade?”

Draco’s eyes narrowed. “So _that’s_ how you snuck into Hogsmeade, that time in third year.”

Harry grinned. “You mean when I used my Invisibility Cloak to scare you and your friends half out of your wits? No. I used another passage that time, from the statue of Gunhilda of Gorsemoor.”

Draco shook his head. “Of course you did. And for the record, I was not _scared_. I made a tactical retreat. You can’t fight what you can’t see.”

Harry just laughed, backing him up against the wall. He leaned into him, pinning him there, and kissed him. Draco struggled for a moment, but his heart wasn’t in it, and his body betrayed him, melting into Harry’s.

Harry cupped his hands under Draco’s tight, pert arse, lifting him. Draco made a small noise in his throat, wrapping his legs around Harry’s waist and digging his fingers into Harry’s hair. It was a clear invitation, but Harry kept kissing him, just enjoying having his lips on Draco’s again, with no fear of interruption. He caught that soft bottom lip between his teeth and bit down, loving Draco’s shuddering moan, and then soothed it with gentle kisses, running his tongue over Draco’s teeth, delving deeper, exploring, stroking and duelling with Draco’s tongue.

Draco began to push his hips into Harry’s, begging wordlessly for more.

Harry pulled back with difficulty. “You were telling me about the mirror?”

Draco gaped at him. “No, I most certainly was _not_ ,” he said. “You were about to fuck me.”

Harry grinned. Merlin, he’d missed this. Missed _Draco_. “Not until you tell me about the mirror,” he said. “I want to know.” He rocked forward deliberately, and Draco’s eyes fluttered closed. Harry pressed a teasing kiss to the corner of his mouth, smiling when Draco turned his head blindly, seeking more. “Tell me.”

Draco made an exasperated noise. “ _Potter_ –”

“Come on, sweetheart.”

Draco sighed. “Fine. The bloody Mirror.” He let his head fall back against the wall, visibly gathering his thoughts. Harry waited patiently. “It has the power to show the many paths the future might take, each one branching off from decisions we make. Pansy asked it to show her mine, starting from whether to open the Cabinet or not. The first path… I didn’t. You advocated for me with Dumbledore, but the mission to rescue my mother failed.”

Harry caught his breath. “What – what happened?”

Draco shook his head. “Nothing good. I died. My mother died. _You_ died, in several of the paths. Some of them were twisted together, with different decisions leading to the same outcome. Some of them, I swear you died – it looked like you did – but then there you were, further down the path, defeating the Dark Lord. Perhaps fulfilling the prophecy Dumbledore’s way, returning from behind the veil.” He paused, and took a shuddering breath. “There were only a few paths where the Dark Lord succeeded in the Dark Moon Ritual, but when he did… the war destroyed _everything_. The entire world; wizarding and Muggle.”

“Merlin,” Harry said, hoarsely. They’d been so close to that future. If Draco hadn’t –

“The Mirror didn’t show me everything,” Draco said. “Only flashes, from each path. Not enough to guide me. Just enough to know there were always consequences, even for what seemed like good choices. At the time, I thought I would have to decide whether or not to save you in the Manor without knowing my mother’s fate. I was lucky, in the end.”

Harry nodded, subdued. “We both were. You know I wouldn’t have blamed you, though? I understand what she means to you.”

Draco’s eyes flashed. “On the contrary. Even if they hadn’t rescued Mother, even if the Dark Lord had continued to hold her over my head in return for my obedience, I still couldn’t have let you die, Harry. You’re family, now, too, and that means your life is worth just as much as hers, or Pansy’s, or mine.”

“No,” Harry said.

Draco’s chin jerked up. “ _Yes_. Pansy and my mother both understand that. But you gave me your word that you would rescue her, and I never doubted it. I just had to swallow my pride, and trust in you. Trust that if I chose _you_ , I would be on the right path, whatever that was.”

“Me,” Harry echoed. All of this seemed to hinge on The Plan. If any of it had gone wrong, or if Pansy had never proposed it in the first place… “What if – what if I’d never offered you my protection?”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “I think you know the answer to that.” He shrugged. “As to whether I could have gone through with it… maybe. Maybe not. In which case, Dumbledore may have succeeded in dying anyway, at Snape’s hand. I am not the only one whose decisions impact this war, or our lives.”

Harry scowled. “Right.”

Draco ran his finger lightly over Harry’s brow, smoothing out the frown. “I lived, in many of the paths,” he said, softly. “Merlin knows how. But after the war, my life wasn’t happy, or fulfilling. I saw nightmares, and loss, and isolation. Our bond destroyed, but never forgotten; an indelible mark on my life.”

Harry’s heart skipped a beat. “Our bond was destroyed? How?”

“The same way any soul-bond is destroyed,” Draco said. “Hatred, betrayal. Repeated renunciations of our love. I was worried, after the Manor –”

“I could never hate you,” Harry said.

Draco smiled. “I know. You’re far too forgiving, you know.”

Harry shook his head. “You saved my life.”

“And _you_ ,” Draco said, cupping Harry’s cheek in his hand, “are the reason I have a future.”

Harry gazed at him, overwhelmed. “Pansy should probably get some of the credit for that.”

“Probably,” Draco agreed. “But, after all, she would have had nothing to work with if you hadn’t been in love with me already.”

Harry stared at him, the bottom suddenly dropping out of his world.

 _Fuck_.

Draco didn’t know. _Draco didn’t know_.

He’d just assumed, from what Draco had said at the Manor, that he knew about The Plan… but obviously not. How was that possible? He’d referred to their courtship as a ‘battle of wills’, at the Ministry. He’d figured Pansy out; knew they’d been conspiring together.

And yet he obviously didn’t realise just _how much_ of it had been a lie. He didn’t know that Harry had never said, and meant, those three little words. He didn’t know that Harry had spent last night tossing and turning in his bed, in turns terrified and elated at the idea of being in love with Draco Malfoy. He didn’t know how big, how _significant_ , this moment was.

“I do love you,” he gasped.

Draco smirked at him. “I know.”

Harry felt sick.

He’d used those words as a weapon, time and time again, fighting to convince Draco that his feelings were real, that their charade of a courtship was real. And now that it _was_ , now that he’d finally realised just how long he’d been in love with Draco (since the very first time he’d said it, he thought now), he could never tell him.

“I really, really do,” he said desperately, as if that would help.

Draco gave him a look brimming over with fondness and mischief and lust. “Prove it,” he challenged. “Take me into our Room and fuck me into the mattress on the bed you made for me.”

“Yes,” Harry said, and took Draco’s mouth in a hard kiss.

~*~

It was important to him that there were no reminders of the horrific months Draco had spent trying to open the Vanishing Cabinet. The Room of Requirement obliged him, shrinking into a small, cosy room, lit with flickering candles and a large fireplace, with thick, soft rugs piled on the floor. He left a few of the rose bushes, for nostalgia’s sake.

Draco peered around him, and raised an eyebrow. “That’s our bed.”

“Full marks for observation,” Harry said, whirling and grabbing him around the waist. He walked them back to the bed, and then slowed, cupping Draco’s jaw gently and covering his face with soft little kisses.

“Kiss me,” Draco pleaded, trying to capture Harry’s lips with his own.

“Shh,” Harry said, working the clasps of Draco’s robes one-handed as he used the other hand to tilt Draco’s head back, kissing him under his jaw. “I want to make love to you.”

Draco looked frustrated. “I suppose I should just be grateful you’re not tearing my robes off like some kind of Muggle heathen, this time.”

He didn’t sound grateful at all, and Harry chuckled. “Do you even know what a heathen is?”

Draco didn’t reply, shivering as Harry slid his robes off his shoulders, baring the mark he’d left on his neck during their DADA exam. It was a dark bruise against the pale skin, and Harry bent his head to it again, closing his teeth around the edges gently.

Draco gasped, threading trembling fingers through Harry’s hair as he sucked just a little too hard, worrying at the bruise, deepening it. Marking his claim again. He drew back at last, smiling at the way Draco’s legs had weakened, his eyes closed, face slack with pleasure. Harry lowered him gently to the bed, settling on top of him and taking his mouth again. Draco sighed, melting into the soft cotton sheets.

Harry kissed him for a long time, hands idling over Draco’s warm skin, until Draco was hard and desperate under him, moaning and scrabbling at Harry’s robes.

He tore his mouth away, panting. “Clothes – Harry, _please_ –”

Harry laughed, lifting up to help him, kicking off a single trouser leg before falling back down, catching himself on his hands and staring down at his lover. Draco’s lips were bruised and swollen, cheeks flushed, beautiful grey eyes alight with happiness. “ _Merlin_ , you’re beautiful,” Harry breathed.

“More sex, less talk,” Draco demanded.

“Yeah,” Harry said, breathless, and struggled up to his knees, fumbling with his wand.

Draco arched and whimpered when the spell opened him up, and Harry was abruptly jealous. He cast his wand aside and pushed Draco’s knees up roughly, thrusting three fingers in at once through the loosened ring of muscle. Draco cried out, flailing. He grabbed hold of the bed-head, gripping with white-knuckled fingers as Harry shoved and twisted, searching for his prostate.

Harry watched Draco’s face avidly as he stroked and tormented the tiny bundle of nerves, loving every twitch, every shudder, every moan of pleasure. How could he have ever thought he could live without this? Without _him_? He was a fool as well as a liar.

He let his fingers slide out, and Draco whimpered in loss, reaching for him. Harry smiled. “I love you,” he said, warmth and guilt filling his chest in equal measure.

Draco didn’t open his eyes, but he smiled brilliantly. Harry pushed in gently, as gently as humanly possible, and then found an easy rhythm, slow and steady, aiming for Draco’s prostate every time. Judging by the way Draco was crying out, jerking with every thrust, eyes squeezed shut and sweat beading on his forehead, Harry thought he was probably succeeding.

It was a long, slow build-up, but the end rushed in on him like a tsunami, great and sudden and terrible. He had time to close his hand around Draco’s cock and give one, rough stroke before he came, the waves of pleasure overwhelming him, consuming him.

He came back to himself to find his cock still spurting weakly inside Draco, and his lover lying limp and sated beneath him. Harry sighed and thrust a few more times, lazy and shallow, before it was too much and he had to pull out.

“Draco?” he said, settling on top of the other boy and nuzzling into his neck. It was sweat-damp and fragrant with the smell of Draco’s musk, and he breathed in deeply. “You all right?”

“Only if dead is all right,” Draco said, drowsily. He groped for one of Harry’s hands and twined their fingers together, bringing them up to his lips to kiss.

Harry smiled through his tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ron's Arithmancy sum comes, of course, from Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy :)


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for your comments and kudos, I really appreciate them! xx

**CHAPTER SIXTEEN**

**SOUL MAGIC**

Part Two

Draco woke with a sticky stomach, cold limbs and a mouthful of Harry’s hair. He stroked his hands over the smooth skin of Harry’s back, which somehow seemed to radiate heat despite the coolness of the room. The fire had died down, and he reached for his wand. It was too far away. He sighed, resigning himself to shivering.

“Wandless Summoning Charm,” Harry mumbled.

“You’re awake,” Draco said. “You do it.”

“It’s one of the easiest wandless spells,” Harry said. “You really can’t do it?”

Draco scowled at the top of his head. “I’m not that powerful. I’m proficient at non-verbal casting, but I’ve never been able to cast wandlessly. Not until we started using the Wild Magic, anyway. And I’m an Earth Mage, remember? Somehow I don’t think that includes summoning spells.”

“Your wand is made of wood, which grows out of the earth,” Harry pointed out. “It might work.” He shifted a little, and Draco shivered as cold air brushed over his exposed skin. “Besides,” Harry said, “you told me our souls are bound, which means our magic is bound. I’ve started consciously feeling the difference between my magic and the Wild Magic, and doing spells I never could have before, wandlessly and non-verbally. I think that’s because, somehow, I’m using your magic as well. I think our bond means we can share each other’s magic, increase the power of our spells on our own, without even using the Wild Magic.”

Draco blinked. “Harry,” he said, in a tone meant to convey ‘you daft sod’, in the fondest possible way, “it’s five o’clock in the morning. Just light the bloody fire, will you?”

Harry laughed, and obediently summoned his own wand with a wave of his hand. His lips didn’t move. Draco snorted, shaking his head, and Harry grinned back at him, using his wand to light a roaring fire, clean them up, and settle them back down with the covers pulled up to their chins. Draco gazed at him, brushing a lock of hair out of Harry’s eyes. It was so lovely to see him happy again. To see him smiling, and laughing, as if a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. As if –

Draco felt a cold shiver go down his spine. Didn’t they say one of the signs that someone had made the decision to commit suicide was a sudden, unexplained lift in mood? “Harry,” he said. “You’re not planning on doing anything stupid, are you?”

Harry’s eyes crinkled at him, amused. “Gryffindor kind of stupid, you mean?”

“Walking to your death kind of stupid,” Draco replied, flatly.

Harry sighed. “Draco…”

“No!” Draco snapped, furious. “We’ve _discussed_ this, Harry!”

“And I want you to be right,” Harry hastened to assure him. “I do. But people are dying. There’s a – a lull, at the moment, probably because Voldemort’s regrouping, or something. T-torturing Remus.” His voice hitched a little, and Draco relented enough to pull him into his arms. Harry continued, his words muffled against Draco’s shoulder. “But don’t you understand? I know, now, what I can do to stop it. How can I let it continue, knowing I can stop innocents being hurt and killed? What kind of person would I be, then?”

Draco sighed. “Not Harry Potter, I know. But there are four other Horcruxes that have to be found and destroyed. What possible purpose could your death serve before then? Especially when you’re one of the few who even know about the Horcruxes, or how to destroy them. What if you died, and the others were never found? The Dark Lord would _win_ , because you gave up.”

Harry frowned. “I didn’t think of that.”

“And meanwhile, perhaps we could be focusing on a way to destroy yours _without_ killing you?”

Harry blew out a breath. “Yeah. Okay. You’re right.”

“I’m always right,” Draco said, and was rewarded with a weak laugh. “The Dark Lord could come after you any day now, Harry. We can’t even afford to wait until exams are over.”

“Ron and Hermione said the same thing yesterday,” Harry said. “They want you to help, by the way. I don’t reckon Dumbledore would have left any books unturned in Hogwarts, but Hermione thinks you might have access to resources the Order doesn’t.”

“Perhaps,” Draco agreed. He hesitated, and then said, “I know the fewer people who know about the Horcruxes the better, but I’d like to tell Pansy. She wouldn’t –”

“I know,” Harry interrupted, and then reconsidered. “Well, I suppose she might, but only if it was for you.”

Draco shook his head. “No. Not anymore. Betraying you would be betraying me, and she would never do that.”

Harry nodded. “Okay.”

“Thank you,” Draco said. He draped one leg over Harry’s, pushing his shoulders flat. “But since we’re awake at five oh-bloody-clock, I want to fuck you.”

Harry’s eyes darkened instantly. “Yeah?” he said, the tone of his voice quivering just on the edge of danger. Draco saw it in his eyes a split second before he rolled them, pinning Draco to the mattress. “And what if,” he said, forcing Draco’s thighs apart and pulling one leg up and out to tease at his entrance, making Draco jerk and whimper, “what if I want _you_? What if I want to take you, claim you, ream your arse out with my tongue and fingers before plunging into you, filling you up with my cock, forcing you to take it hard and fast, just like you were begging me for yesterday –”

Draco arched up against him, raking his fingernails down Harry’s back. “ _Yes_ ,” he hissed.

Harry smiled at him, slowly, and it sent shivers down Draco’s spine. “No,” he said, thoughtfully, “I don’t think I will. I think I’ll give you what you demanded… but we’ll do it _my_ way.”

Draco felt heat flood him, every hair on his body standing on end, his thighs trembling. Oh Merlin. Harry’s fantasy. It felt like eons ago, but he could still remember every word. “Potter,” he said, but Harry leant down and pressed his lips to Draco’s, and Draco felt the brush of the cool, fresh breeze that was Harry’s soul; snow and Christmas and the scent of pine trees.

Harry smiled down at him. “ _Incarcerous_.”

Ropes snaked around Draco’s wrists and pulled them up over his head. He felt himself harden abruptly, painfully fast. “Oh fuck,” he swore, tugging at the bonds. They were tight. Not tight enough to cut off circulation, but tight enough that he couldn’t even flick his wrist to summon his wand. Obviously Harry believed he could, and was taking no chances. He swallowed, dizzy with want.

Harry grinned down at him, wriggling his fingers, and Draco watched them turn slick with lube. Harry reached behind himself deliberately, and Draco’s breath caught in his throat.

“Harry. _Harry_ ,” he said breathlessly, digging his heels into the bed and arching up futilely. Harry rode with him, not allowing him to rub up against him.

“Ah, ah,” he chided, as he pushed a finger inside himself. “You know how this goes.”

Draco felt his cock jerk against his stomach. “Please,” he begged.

Harry leaned down and kissed him quiet, kissed him until all thought of struggle had fled. Then he kissed down his jaw, and teased at his throat, at his Adam’s apple, at the hickey that was already there, down to the juncture between his neck and shoulder.

Draco wished desperately that his hands were free; that he could thread his fingers through Harry’s wild, thick hair and _direct_ the stubborn bastard, but there was a smile on Harry’s face as he bent to suck and bite at Draco’s nipple, and all he could really think was that he’d missed this. Missed Harry taking control, holding him down, forcing him into submission. Giving him the sense of safety and security he’d been so sorely lacking this whole, wretched year.

He squirmed and moaned as each nipple was tormented in turn, his cock straining and neglected as Harry sucked and licked his way slowly down to his stomach, delving his tongue into Draco’s navel, thrusting in and out in a mimicry of fucking.

Draco pulled at the ropes, babbling hopeless pleas, and then Harry’s chin brushed his straining cock and he cried out in desperation. “Harry! Please, oh please, suck me!”

Harry’s mouth was on him in an instant, as if he couldn’t bear to wait any longer either, and Draco shook as he licked up the throbbing vein on the underside, opening his mouth wide and taking him in, sucking hungrily, bobbing his head to take in more, holding him steady by the root just like Draco had taught him, and it was too much – _too much_ –

“Harry!” he cried, and something in his voice must have alerted his lover, because he pulled back. He licked his lips, looking disappointed, and it almost sent Draco right over the edge.

“Not yet,” Harry warned him, and Draco whimpered but held on. “Good, love, you’re so good,” Harry praised him, wriggling his fingers again and running them just once, slick with lube, up and down Draco’s cock. Draco thrust his hips up immediately, solely on instinct, but the fingers were gone before his brain even truly registered they were there.

He whimpered brokenly.

“I’ve been thinking about this, you know,” Harry said conversationally, straddling him. “Jerking off to it. And I thought… it’s really not fair that I can’t fuck you at the same time as I ride you. I want everything. I want your total surrender, your total submission. I want to be stretching your hole with my cock even as I fuck myself on your cock. So I came up with a spell. A sort of variation of the stretching one.”

“You came up with a spell,” Draco echoed. He could hear a slightly hysterical edge to his voice, and he steadied himself with an effort.

Harry smiled wickedly down at him. “Yes. Checked out three library books to do it, too. Just for you.”

Draco felt that now-familiar brush of Harry’s soul again, but this time, it was almost unbearably arousing, and he couldn’t escape it. It was _inside_ him, touching his soul. And then, suddenly, something that felt remarkably like Harry’s cock began pushing into him. He was still tender from the night before; Harry had fucked him for well over an hour, and it was painful and too-full and so good, and Harry’s soul – his magic – was still _touching_ him, and then Harry grasped his cock and began to slowly push himself down onto it, and Draco screamed.

“I can’t – I _can’t_ –!”

“Don’t you dare,” Harry gasped out, wrapping their magic like a noose around the base of his cock.

Draco shuddered and writhed, eyes screwed shut, sweat trickling down his temples as every single muscle in his body tensed in desperation. And then that wretched spell inside him, filling him, mimicking Harry’s beautiful cock, began to _move_ , hitting his prostate with unerring accuracy. He screamed again. “Merlin, please, please –!”

Harry panted, lowering himself the last couple of inches until he was fully seated in Draco’s lap. “Yes,” he said, and the magic loosened and Draco came with a throat-rending scream as his body turned itself inside out, pleasure igniting every nerve and carrying him over and over into oblivion.

He collapsed back to the bed, sated, exhausted.

Sleep was beckoning in the corners of his mind, and he only opened his eyes when, with the last shreds of consciousness, he realised Harry was gasping for breath, trembling as he tried to stave off his own orgasm.

Draco tried to reach for him, but his hands were still tied, and he pulled at them in frustration. “I want –”

“No,” Harry said, as if he could read his mind. His eyes were closed, head flung back, and Draco desperately wanted to lick up the line of his throat. “I’m going to see this through. I’m going to ride you, and I’m _going_ to make you come again.”

Face set in determination, Harry lifted himself carefully, just the tiniest bit. Draco cried out as his softening, sensitive cock began to slip out, and then Harry _sank down on it_ again, the heat and tightness surrounding him again, squeezing him back to hardness.

“Harry, please, _please_ ,” he begged, tears slipping down his face, voice cracking as he scrabbled to pull away. But Harry just did it again, and again, and the spell inside him came back to life, fucking him again, until Draco thought he’d lose his mind, unable to think or breathe or even remember how to form words. He just shook, sobbing, pleasure and pain merging until he could no longer tell one from the other, and Harry was losing his rhythm, hips rocking erratically –

“ _Come_ , Draco,” he said, breathlessly. “Come, or I won’t stop. I’ll just keep on, and on –”

He brushed the tip of a finger over Draco’s nipple, and that was it. Draco shattered into a million pieces, spinning away to a place that was pleasure and ecstasy like he’d never known before, and Harry was right there with him, riding the crest of the wave, surrounding him with his soul in a comforting cocoon of magic and light and life.

~*~

He opened his eyes to find the room awash in colour. He blinked, and then blinked again.

His parents had taken him to see the Northern Lights, once. The splendour and majesty of it had filled his five-year-old heart with quiet wonder for days afterward. But _this_ – this took his breath away; a display of the beauty of Magic itself, raw and untamed. Rich, vibrant colours the Aurora Borealis could never hope to match, light twisting and dappling into new and even more spectacular designs the longer he watched.

“Harry,” he whispered, awed.

Harry lifted his head from Draco’s shoulder, looking down at him. His face was so full, of triumph and love and a deep, fierce possessiveness that had Draco shivering uncontrollably. He moved his fingers a little, and Draco realised they were in his arse, holding him open. The stretch was slightly uncomfortable, but it was insignificant compared to the feeling of being possessed, being held.

Being loved.

He banished the ropes with a single thought, and brought his hands down to thread through Harry’s hair, feeling languid and happy.

“It’s us,” Harry said in satisfaction, and Draco nodded silently. He could feel the Wild Magic nudging at them like a jealous pet, thoroughly indignant at being shut out of the creation of this kind of raw beauty.

“I can feel you all the time now,” Harry continued, watching the light. He looked as dazzled as Draco felt. “Your beautiful soul. I don’t even have to try; you’re just there. Like that sanctuary you built is a part of you, inside me. And we can combine our magic, use it together. _We_ did this, Draco, just our magic –”

“With a bond given to us by the Wild Magic,” Draco reminded him.

“Yes,” Harry agreed. His fingers nudged Draco’s too-sensitive prostate, and Draco jolted, almost missing Harry’s next words. “It’s incredible. When your magic touches my soul, it’s like you’re seeing every part of me, the good and the bad, even the ugliest parts, and you accept me anyway, love me anyway –”

Draco sucked in a breath, and then he was rolling, struggling up onto his knees, ignoring Harry’s protest as his fingers slipped out. “Harry,” he said, breathless, eyes very wide. “ _Harry_.”

Harry looked at him in surprise. “What?”

“I think I know how to get your Horcrux out.”

~*~

“Okay, explain this to me again,” Ron said, massaging his temples. “You reckon you can use the Wild Magic to destroy a Horcrux inside a wizard, without killing said wizard, who I happen to be fairly fond of, believe it or not, even though he’s not exactly endearing himself to me _right this minute_.”

Harry just grinned at him.

They were in a small, hidden room near the base of the Astronomy tower, which Ron and Hermione had found (in the pursuit of what, exactly, Harry was definitely not thinking about), and they were sitting cross-legged in a circle on the dusty floor. Well, all except for Draco, who was between Harry’s legs.

Draco gave Ron a wry look. “I get the feeling Harry isn’t in the mood for endearing himself to anyone right now.”

“Except you,” Harry chided, kissing Draco’s neck. The hickey he’d sucked into Draco’s skin was covered by his robes, but by the way Draco shuddered, he knew he’d placed his kiss directly over it. “I always want to endear myself to you.”

“You always want to fuck me,” Draco countered. Hermione made a small noise in her throat, and Draco lowered his voice to a murmur. He was slouched in Harry’s arms, resting back against his shoulder, and he tilted his head to brush Harry’s ear with his lips. “Possess me. _Own_ me. Your arms around my waist, your hand on my thigh, your lips on mine, your fingers in my mouth –”

“Shut it, Malfoy,” Harry said roughly, sorely tempted to do just that; shove his fingers into Draco’s mouth, press that sharp tongue down, silence him, feel that wonderful sucking pressure...

But Ron looked like he’d reached his limit already, and, worse, Hermione’s eyes were bright and curious, watching them with a slightly disturbing fascination. Pansy was the only one who looked completely, politely, disinterested. Thank Salazar for Slytherins, anyway.

Of course, if he could have, Harry would have let Draco sit next to him, like a normal person. But he couldn’t. He needed Draco, like a man parched from the desert sun needed water. Like a Veela needed her mate.

His mind shied away from the comparison. He refused to believe that it was the bond forcing them together. He preferred to think it was – well, adolescent hormones, maybe, but also a very real love, and a shared trauma that had forged a different kind of bond altogether between them.

Besides, apart from anything else, Draco was _hot_. He’d have to be blind not to want his hands all over that.

Still, Ron didn’t actually deserve an aneurysm, so he decided, reluctantly, to forgo the fingers in Draco’s mouth. He said instead, “So, the sanctuary you made for me –”

The amusement and lust in Draco’s eyes faded, and regret took their place. “That was instinct,” he said. “I knew I had to do something to make it easier to bear, or less painful, somehow.”

“It did,” Harry said, quietly. Draco turned his head to burrow into his neck, and Harry tightened his arms around him.

“But how?” Hermione asked. “Is that part of your bond? Or could you do it before? I know you have some skill with Occlumency, but –”

“Draco’s always had a gift for both Occlumency and Legilimency,” Pansy said. “Which, as you know, is quite rare. But what Potter’s describing is extremely advanced Mental Magic. Creating a space in another’s mind, filling it with his own soul, giving it walls, I suppose, so Potter could retreat behind it… I think perhaps a Mind Healer could build a place like that, given enough time and familiarity with their patient, but only because they have years of training and experience. What Draco did is just not possible. Or, obviously, not without the Wild Magic.”

Hermione nodded. “So it’s part of your Mage abilities. All right, but do you really think that will be enough to destroy Harry’s Horcrux?”

“On the contrary,” Draco said. “Mental Magic allows access and manipulation of the mind. What I’m proposing is manipulation of the _soul_.”

Hermione frowned. “But – oh, I see! You think you can access his core through the pathways between your magic?”

“I know I can,” Draco said. “Madam Pomfrey showed us how. I was with Harry, for some of it. I didn’t go in as far as his core, but I’m sure I can find it. And I won’t need the diagnostic potions.”

Hermione’s face lit up. “You mean you could do it now?”

Draco raised an eyebrow at her, drawling, “Without research, or practice, or even a back-up plan? Hardly. I wasn’t suggesting an immediate assault into Harry’s soul. I may be dating one, but I am not, nor will I ever be a foolhardy Gryffindor.”

“Oi. Watch it,” Harry warned, sliding a hand up Draco’s thigh.

Draco cleared his throat, shifting awkwardly. “Ideally,” he said, voice remarkably steady given the precarious location of Harry’s fingers, “I’d like to read Jeremiah’s book again, but I don’t see a way to get it out of the Manor. At least we have an advantage in that much of our magic seems to respond well to instinctual actions. Still, I’d like to be as prepared as possible.”

Harry frowned. “Could this be dangerous for you?”

Draco stiffened. “For _me_?” he said, turning to look at him incredulously. “Harry, for fuck’s sake! Why is it that you baulk at the first sign of risk to me, but never even _once_ mention the risk to yourself?”

Harry shrugged. “Because it’s irrelevant. Look at what the ring did to Dumbledore, and he just put it on his finger. This Horcrux is in my soul. It’s a part of me on a level I can’t even comprehend. Nothing we try will be completely risk-free for me, but we _can_ make sure there’s no risk for you.”

“No risk at _all_?” Draco said. “Harry, that’s ridiculous!”

“I don’t want you hurt,” Harry insisted, fear crawling up his throat. Already Draco had a target on his back, and now _this_. Harry was supposed to keep him safe, not put him in even more danger. “I’d rather let Voldemort kill me than see you hurt. Don’t you understand that?”

Draco sighed. “Yes. I do. Because I feel exactly the same way. Which means one of us is going to have to compromise, and since your way is to commit _suicide_ , I’m strongly inclined to say it should be you.”

Harry flinched. “That’s not – it’s different! Giving my life to save everyone else – it’s a sacrifice, not –”

“That’s Dumbledore talking,” Draco said, grimly. “It’s not sacrificing yourself if there’s another way. Even if it poses a risk to me. A risk I am _willing_ to take, by the way, or I would never have suggested it.”

Harry started to shake his head, but Hermione said, “He’s right, Harry. A sacrifice like that would be meaningless; even selfish. What about everyone who loves you? What about Draco? You’d be leaving us behind to grieve you for the rest of our lives, and for no good reason, if he really can do this.”

Harry sighed. “Okay. Fine. I’m sorry. I just –”

“I know,” Draco said, gently. “We’ll talk about the risk when the time comes, I promise. In the meantime, why don’t you tell me about the other Horcruxes? Dumbledore said two have already been destroyed. A ring?”

Harry nodded. “It was his grandfather’s, who claimed to be descended from Slytherin. Maybe Voldemort saw it as a symbol of his heritage as the Heir of Slytherin. Or maybe evidence that he wasn’t just a half-blood; he was descended from one of the Founders themselves.”

“Wait,” Draco said. “The Dark Lord was the Heir of Slytherin?”

“You didn’t know that?” Harry said. Draco exchanged a glance with Pansy, and they shook their heads. “Yeah, when he was at school here. He opened the Chamber by speaking Parseltongue, and used the basilisk to terrorise the Muggleborn students. He used Myrtle’s murder to make his first Horcrux.”

“ _Moaning_ Myrtle?” Draco said, eyebrows shooting up.

“Yes. And then years later, he entrusted the Horcrux, a diary, to your father, who put it in Ginny’s hands in our second year. When she started using it, the Horcrux possessed her, and made her open the Chamber again, releasing the basilisk.”

Draco’s eyes widened. “The missing diary,” he breathed. “Of course. The Ministry raided the Manor three times that summer. My father had to dispose of a number of valuable artifacts, or risk their destruction at the Ministry’s hands. That explains a great deal, actually. You destroyed it?”

“Yes,” Harry said.

Draco shook his head. “The Dark Lord blamed my father for its loss. That’s why he told him about Elemental Mages, and the ritual that could take our power. For a second chance he didn’t deserve.”

Harry frowned. “The Dark Moon Ritual? You think your _father_ told him about that?”

“Hang on,” Ron interrupted, raising a hand. “What ritual?”

“The Dark Moon Ritual,” Draco explained. “It was created by the Black Druids, before Merlin himself. Possibly Natural-born Mages were more common, then. The Druids figured out how to strip a Mage of their elemental magic and return it to the Wild Magic. In return, each participant in the ritual receives unlimited power from sunrise to sunset the next day.”

“Elemental magic?” Harry echoed. “You mean it’s for sacrificing White Mages specifically?”

“Even more specific than that,” Draco said. “White Mages who have manifested, but are not yet old enough to have mastered control over their element.”

Harry felt ice skitter down his spine. “That’s why Voldemort’s never used it,” he realised. “We’re the only people it would work on.” He reached out for Draco involuntarily, and Draco let him draw him back into an embrace.

“But – but that’s _horrible_ ,” Hermione said, distressed. “How could the Wild Magic reward the sacrifice of _children_?”

Pansy shook her head. “It’s not. The Wild Magic has no moral code. It doesn’t reward or punish. It is ancient and wild, unbound by laws or conventions, servant only to its own will. It cannot be contained, or even understood. We write laws, and call them fundamental and immutable, attempting to ascribe human words and concepts to something beyond our comprehension. In truth, we know very little about how or why the Wild Magic works the way it does.”

“But it _protects_ children,” Hermione argued. “You said that, Malfoy! And you called White Mages the Children of Wild Magic.”

“Maybe that’s precisely why the ritual works,” Draco said, shrugging. “Maybe, in some strange way, the Wild Magic is protecting us by welcoming our magic back into itself. After all, the ritual doesn’t kill its victim, just takes their magic.”

Harry frowned. “Funny sort of protection.”

“As Pansy said, we don’t know why some rituals and incantations work the way they do,” Draco said. “Just that they do.”

Ron made a face. “It’s sick, is what it is. I knew the Black Druids were a bad lot, but deliberately figuring out a way to sacrifice a _child’s_ magic…” He shook his head. “Death would be a mercy, after that.”

Draco nodded grimly. “There’s a good reason Black Druids were all but erased from our history books. Who they were, their goals, the details of their rituals and traditions… I believe it was the Black Druids to first conceive of the idea of Horcruxes.”

Harry sucked in a breath. “They created Horcruxes?”

“I only read about one,” Draco told him. “And, obviously, it wasn’t in a living person. The Druid hid the piece of his soul in an effigy of the Triple Goddess, carved out of the wood of a yew tree. Apparently he lived for well over six hundred years before he realised what was keeping him alive. He destroyed it himself.”

Hermione brightened. “How?”

Draco spread his hands apologetically. “It didn’t say.” He looked at Harry. “How did you destroy the diary?”

“A basilisk fang,” Harry said. He smiled slightly. “It was what was on hand at the time.”

Ron snorted. “Well, we can’t stab _you_ with a basilisk fang, mate.”

Harry tensed. He remembered all too clearly the basilisk fang piercing his arm. The numbness, first, and then the pain as the venom spread through his body, killing him slowly, torturously, as Ginny sobbed. Not even the Cruciatus Curse had come close to that level of agony. Could he really bear that again? Could he allow himself to be stabbed, knowing the painful death that awaited him?

“Harry,” Draco said, cupping his face in his hands. Harry looked at him, wondering if Draco would grieve for him, cry for him, like the phoenix had. “We are _not_ stabbing you with a basilisk fang. Understand? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione said, her tone heavy with disappointment.

Harry lifted his chin. “I know,” he said, resolving to put his doubts aside, and believe in his friends. In Draco. “You’re going to get it out.”

“Damn straight we are,” Ron said, loyally. “Voldemort’s bloody well not getting the better of us this time. You’ve survived everything else the bastard’s thrown at you. This is just one more obstacle before we can _kill_ the son-of-a-bitch.”

“Absolutely,” Hermione agreed, warmly.

Pansy nodded. “I’m with Weasley.” Her lips twitched. “And that is not something I ever thought would come out of my mouth.”

“Not letting you die, Potter,” Draco said, still holding his gaze. “And I am going to _keep_ telling you that until you get it through your thick Gryffindor skull.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, smiling. Draco leaned forward and kissed him chastely, just a peck on the lips, but it was enough to send heat shivering through him. “Merlin, I love you,” he sighed.

“Of course you do,” Draco said, with that simple arrogance Harry adored. “And now,” he said, casting _Tempus_ , “we have to go. Our Charms exam is in fifteen minutes.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “ _Fifteen_ –? Oh Morgana, you’re right! Ron, where’s my –”

Ron handed her a sheaf of notes, entirely unruffled, and she reached up to kiss his cheek even as she began to scan the first page. Ron offered her his arm, and she tucked her hand into it as she stood. They left the room together, Hermione already quizzing him on the content of her notes.

Harry looked at Draco, feeling his smile widen. For the first time, he wasn’t feeling that terrible, shameful prick of jealousy at seeing his best friends happy and in love with each other. He was just happy. Because his fate might be uncertain, but he did know this: he was _loved_.

And no fucking Horcrux could change that.

~*~

They went to visit Dumbledore after the exam. Draco asked, on the way out of the classroom, how the ring had been destroyed, and Harry realised he didn’t actually know. He wasn’t sure whether to feel angry or just resigned. After everything they’d been through, Dumbledore was _still_ withholding vital information from him.

Voldemort had survived without a body for ten years; just his maimed soul floating around in the ether until he found something he could possess. What if the Horcruxes could survive without a living host, too? What if, in trying to get it out, Harry’s Horcrux possessed one of his friends? He couldn’t risk Draco’s life, or Ron and Hermione’s, on what ifs. They had to know everything Dumbledore knew, _now_.

By the time they reached the staircase to the Headmaster’s office, he was physically shaking with anger.

“All right?” Draco asked, concerned.

“No,” Harry said. “No, you have to promise me, Draco, if I lose my temper –”

“You won’t,” Draco assured him. “But if you do, I’ll be there. I promise.”

Harry took a deep breath, and faced the stone gargoyle. “Lemon ice-bubbles.” The gargoyle just stared at him blankly, and he swore under his breath. “Seriously? Now?”

“Jammie dodgers,” Draco said. The gargoyle started to turn.

“What? How –?”

“Dumbledore wanted to know about our bond,” Draco explained. “I told him he was a fool if he thought I was going to answer any of his questions without you there.” Harry snorted. “And then I told him that if he pushed you before you were ready, he would regret it, because it wouldn’t matter what our bond is, or how it might help him win the war… Harry Potter’s a bloody-minded, stubborn bastard when he’s decided to dig in his heels about something.”

Harry gaped. “You said that. To _Dumbledore_.”

Draco smirked. “I don’t think he appreciated my language, but he acknowledged my point, at least.” The gargoyle creaked to a stop, and Harry fumbled for Draco’s hand again, holding on tightly. Draco’s smirk softened. “Everything’s going to be fine, sweetheart.”

Harry smiled weakly. “Yeah.”

They walked up the staircase together, hand in hand, and Draco knocked on the office door.

“Come in,” Dumbledore called. He was standing bent over his Pensieve, but he straightened when he saw them, face creasing in a weary smile. “Ah, Harry, my boy. It’s good to see you.”

“Sir,” Harry managed.

“And Mr Malfoy.” Dumbledore crossed the room to sit at his desk, leaving his Pensieve swimming with the silver mist of his memories. “What can I help you with?”

“We came to ask you about Marvolo’s ring.”

Dumbledore regarded Harry over his half-moon spectacles, looking meditative. “Your professors inform me that you are doing exceptionally well in your exams, Harry,” he said. “I’m very proud of you. Your effort and achievement are admirable after what you have suffered during the last two weeks.”

Harry swallowed. “Thank you, sir. But about –”

“You are trying to find a way to remove your Horcrux,” Dumbledore said. “I understand, believe me. I spent years looking for another answer. Hoping, _praying_ , that it would never come to this. To ask a child… but there is no other way.”

“With all due respect, professor, we’d prefer not to take your word for it,” Draco said, flatly. “The ring?”

“Of course,” Dumbledore said, coldly. “But I fear it will not be as illuminating as you hope.” He turned to Harry. “Do you remember how you killed the basilisk in your second year, my dear boy?”

“The Sorting Hat,” Harry agreed. “It gave me the sword of Gryffindor. That’s what you used?”

“Merlin, Harry,” Draco said, horrified. “I didn’t think you were serious about that! You really killed a basilisk with a _sword_? Why – how did you even get _in_ there? And where in the seven hells was Dumbledore?”

Harry looked at him, a little reproachful. “Dumbledore wasn’t Headmaster at the time, remember? Your father got him thrown out.”

“I remember,” Draco said. “But no one actually believes he left. Just like in fifth year. I’m sure he was lurking about somewhere. I bet he sent you the Sorting Hat deliberately. Encouraging a _child_ to fight a deadly monster –”

“Fawkes brought it to me,” Harry said, exasperated. Except… Fawkes was Dumbledore’s familiar. What were the chances Dumbledore hadn’t had a part in Fawkes arriving at just the right time to blind the basilisk, give him the sword of Gryffindor, and later, heal him of the basilisk’s venom?

He looked at Dumbledore, who sighed. “You seem determined to paint me in the worst possible light, Mr Malfoy.”

“I just want Harry to think for himself, instead of parroting back your old lies,” Draco said. “Sir.”

Dumbledore ignored him. “Harry, my boy,” he said, “I have made mistakes. I acknowledge that. But I do hope you do not let my mistakes blind you to the truth of yourself. Your bravery, strength and determination to do what’s right are not the result of some sort of _machination_ on my part. You are an incredible young man. A Gryffindor at heart, no matter what the Sorting Hat once thought. I may have sent the sword to you, but it would not have allowed itself to be drawn from the Sorting Hat by anyone who was not true and noble of heart. Your bravery continues to astound and humble me. Not many wizards would have been willing to venture into the lair of a basilisk, even for a friend. Certainly very few twelve-year-olds.”

“The perfect lamb to the slaughter,” Draco murmured. “Praising you for thoughtlessly endangering your life as a _twelve-year-old_ , instead of – why didn’t you go to McGonagall? Flitwick? Hell, if you knew the way into the Chamber of Secrets, you could’ve called in the Aurors! Vanquishing Dark creatures is _in_ their job description.”

Harry didn’t want to admit that it hadn’t even crossed his mind. “There were mitigating factors,” he said, weakly.

“He’s the only real father figure you have,” Draco said. “His doing, if I remember correctly. Leaving you with those foul Muggles. No one to tell you right from wrong, no one to protect you. No family to grieve for you, even. Just as he planned it. ”

“ _I_ would have grieved, Mr Malfoy,” Dumbledore said.

Harry flinched. He’d honestly expected Dumbledore to contradict Draco, not _agree_ with him. It felt like every time he had a conversation with the man, the truth of the last six years became clearer. And more painful.

Draco squeezed his hand gently. “Would you?” he asked Dumbledore. “You call him brave, but you made him reckless. Moulding him, manipulating him, until he was ready to throw his life away for the cause –”

“Not for the cause,” Harry said. He remembered Hagrid’s story, the very first time they’d met. Had Dumbledore mentioned, perhaps in passing, that telling him about his parents _might be a good idea, if young Harry asked_ –? “For revenge. That’s why you tried to convince me the prophecy meant I would never be able to rest until I’d avenged my parents’ deaths, isn’t it, sir?”

Dumbledore opened his mouth.

“I told him about your ‘escape clause’,” Draco said. “In case you were thinking you could still manipulate him into dying somehow.”

Dumbledore’s mouth thinned. He steepled his fingers together. “Indeed, Mr Malfoy?” he said, icily. “You surprise me. Very well. I won’t deny that this is not what I had hoped for you, Harry. While it is true my overriding concern has always been defeating Voldemort, that night in the graveyard changed everything. Voldemort himself gave you the opportunity to survive the destruction of your Horcrux. I had planned it meticulously. My death was to serve to pass the baton on to others; to you, and Severus. Severus was to assist you, where he could, to find and destroy the Horcruxes, and then he was to show you my Pensieve memories, which would have helped you understand your final role.”

“My role,” Harry echoed. “You mean my death.”

Dumbledore inclined his head. “I always believed you were meant to play a larger part in Voldemort’s demise than the presence of your Horcrux implied. But now Mr Malfoy has taken that option from you, and with it, any hope of returning from behind the veil.”

“Except I was going to be doing that anyway, though, right?” Harry pointed out. “You weren’t going to tell me. I would’ve died believing it was the end.”

“But you may have survived that death,” Dumbledore said. “Now…”

“Now we find another way,” Draco interrupted. Harry smiled despite himself. Hope was irrepressible, when Draco was fighting in his corner. “So, the sword of Gryffindor, basilisk venom. What else?”

“Ah,” Dumbledore said. “I am afraid the sword of Gryffindor alone would not have been enough to destroy a Horcrux, even forged by goblins a thousand years ago for one of the finest wizards of the age. What it can and _did_ do is absorb anything which makes it stronger. In this case, the venom that coated it when you thrust it through the top of the basilisk’s mouth, Harry.”

Harry closed his eyes. Somehow he wasn’t surprised.

“I know it’s not what you were hoping for, my boy,” Dumbledore said, his voice gentling. “Unfortunately, Horcruxes are almost impossible to destroy. Only the most lethal of means are effective, and there are very few substances as destructive as basilisk venom. The host of a Horcrux must be put beyond any repair. Beyond _magical_ repair, which, for a living host, means –”

“Death,” Harry said.

“Just so.”

“You’ve never said. Would the Killing Curse work, as well?”

“Harry,” Draco protested.

“I believe so,” Dumbledore agreed. “It is Dark magic, just like the basilisk.”

“The Killing Curse will _not_ work,” Draco said, loudly. “You’re not going to die. Maybe we could find a way with the basilisk venom. There is a cure for it, you know. Fawkes –”

Harry shook his head. “I’ve already been bitten. Brought to the brink of death, and then healed. It didn’t destroy the Horcrux.”

Draco’s eyebrows rose. “Sorry, what?”

“One of the fangs caught my arm when I put the sword through its mouth. I thought I was going to die, but Fawkes cried, and his tears healed me.”

“Unbelievable,” Draco muttered. “You went in alone, to face _that_ –”

“I took Ron with me,” Harry said. “And Professor Lockhart.” He winced at Draco’s look. “I know, I know. But they didn’t make it in with me. Lockhart stole Ron’s wand and accidentally blocked off the entrance to the Chamber. So it was just me.”

“ _Idiot_ ,” Draco said, savagely. “You were _twelve_. You could have _died_.”

Harry stared at him. And then he grinned helplessly. “I love you, too.”

A flush crept up Draco’s cheeks. He cleared his throat. “Headmaster,” he said, but Harry kept smiling, feeling almost giddy. Draco cared if he was hurt. Cared that he’d been hurt four _years_ ago. “How much do you know about soul-bonds?”

Dumbledore lifted one bushy white eyebrow. “Rare magic indeed. I take it this means you are ready to tell me about the bond you share?”

Draco looked at Harry, and Harry nodded.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for your comments and kudos! xx

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

**DANCE ME TO THE END OF LOVE**

_Looking back on the memory of_   
_The dance we shared beneath the stars above_   
_For a moment all the world was right_   
_How could I have known you’d ever say goodbye_   
_And now I’m glad I didn’t know_   
_The way it all would end, the way it all would go_

_Our lives are better left to chance; I could have missed the pain_  
 _But I’d’ve had to miss the dance_  
~ Garth Brooks

Part One

There was a storm brewing above Hogwarts, dark thunderclouds rolling in to hide the stars. A steadily increasing patter of rain beat at the windows of the Great Hall. Harry watched the rivulets of water running down the thick glass, ignoring the subdued chatter of the students around him. The Great Hall was strangely empty at mealtimes now.

He missed it; the excitable prattle of the first and second years, filling the castle with noise and life and laughter. The darkness of the approaching war had encroached upon Hogwarts at last, and no one could ignore the spectre hanging over the castle anymore.

Cornelius Fudge had announced Voldemort’s return exactly a year ago today. Which meant Harry had completely missed the anniversary of his godfather’s death. He’d _forgotten_ Sirius. It made something terrible twist in his chest.

A flash of lightning lit up the enchanted ceiling, followed by the slow, deep roar of thunder.

Harry lifted his head to watch it. He could feel the crackle of electricity skimming across his skin, making his hair stand on end. He wanted to reach out and touch the clouds; become one with the storm. _Feel_ the unrivalled majesty of Nature driving through his veins, stripping him of everything but Magic, pure and wild. He wanted to shed this mortal body and fly, up and up, to where nothing could touch him, and no one could hurt him, and he didn’t have to fight anymore. Where nothing mattered but the wind, carrying him higher and higher –

There was a gentle touch to the base of his spine, and he shuddered, slamming back into his body.

“Draco,” he said, opening his eyes. The world rocked in front of him for a moment.

Draco was crouching next to him, grey eyes worried. “Hey, sweetheart,” he said, as Harry met his gaze. “What are you doing?”

“I –” Harry looked around, confused. It seemed like only a moment ago that the Great Hall had been just over half-full. Now there were only a few students left, lingering over their desserts. Even Ron and Hermione had disappeared.

He stood abruptly, scraping back the bench and almost unseating Neville, who yelped as he lost half his rice pudding down his robes.

“Sorry, mate,” Harry muttered, grabbing Draco’s hand. He made for the exit, towing Draco behind him.

Fortunately, it just so happened that the nearest empty room had a very large desk. “Not that I’m not enjoying the manhandling,” Draco told him, “because you know I am, but – _Harry_ ,” he protested, as Harry pushed him up against the desk. “What are you –?”

Harry lowered his head to Draco’s shoulder and just breathed. The tension drained out of his body, and he relaxed with a sigh.

Draco’s hands came up to rest on his back. “Harry?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “Just give me a minute, yeah?”

“Of course,” Draco said. He began stroking Harry’s back soothingly.

Harry closed his eyes. “You ground me, you know,” he murmured, nosing at the juncture of Draco’s neck and shoulder. He found the bruised flesh where he’d marked Draco during their DADA exam and worried it with his teeth, sucking gently but insistently.

Draco’s hands stuttered. “W-what?”

Harry bit down, almost, but not quite, breaking the skin. Draco made a small noise, and Harry eased back. “You ground me,” he repeated, regarding the reddened bruise with approval. He bent his head again and soothed it with his tongue. Draco’s fingers settled on his hips, digging in slightly. “You remind me, when the world is falling apart, how good it is to be flesh and bone, to _feel_ , with our bodies. Not – not just sex, but –”

“Intimacy,” Draco agreed.

 _Intimacy_ , Harry thought. Exactly. He kissed Draco, probing gently with his tongue, and Draco opened for him obligingly. Harry accepted the invitation happily, sliding his fingers up into his lover’s whisper-soft hair, cupping his head tenderly as he kissed him. It was hot and slick and sweet, just like always, but it was also comfortable. Familiar. Intimate.

“I love you,” he whispered, into Draco’s mouth.

Draco’s lips curved up into a smile, and Harry kissed him harder, pressing him back against the desk.

Nothing in the world could have prepared him for how this felt. Being _in love_. Like all the best things in the world: catching the Snitch, a hot butterbeer on an icy-cold day, and the comforting aroma of Mrs Weasley’s home cooking, all combined. Only _better_.

Before Draco, he’d thrown himself into one battle after another, without any thought for his own life. Trying to make Dumbledore proud; trying to make up for all those people who had died because of him. It felt selfish, now, being so happy when Cedric and Sirius and his parents would never be happy again. To look forward, past his inevitable final confrontation with Voldemort, to a future where they lived happily ever after, when so many others would never have that opportunity.

But, Merlin help him, he _liked_ it. He liked imagining a future with the boy he loved.

“I love you,” he said again. “You’ve changed everything. Do you realise that? My whole _life_.”

Draco smiled at him. “No,” he said. “You changed both our lives. You acted on feelings you had no idea I would ever return. Granted, at Pansy’s behest, but you can’t possibly understand how much that means to me.”

Harry barely suppressed a flinch. _Damn it all_. Just when he’d managed to forget their whole relationship was based on an elaborate fucking charade.

“What is it?” Draco said, frowning.

“Nothing,” Harry said, and leaned in to kiss him again.

Draco pressed his hands to Harry’s chest, holding him back. His frown deepened. “I want you to tell me what happened in the Great Hall. I lost you for a minute there. Did you call up that storm?”

Harry blinked at him. “I don’t know,” he said, honestly. “Do you think I did?”

“It came out of nowhere,” Draco told him. “It felt like you were not – not drawing on the Wild Magic, exactly, but calling it _to_ you. Reaching out to it, through me. It felt like you were trying to leave, somehow. Leave _me_.”

Harry winced. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It wasn’t like that. I was just... thinking about everyone I’ve lost. And then I saw the storm, and I wanted to lose myself in it. To fly away, I guess.”

“You don’t have to lose yourself in a storm to fly away,” Draco said, his eyes worried. “We can go anywhere you want, right now. Where do you want to go? Tell me, and I’ll make it happen.”

Harry tried to smile. “Don’t tempt me,” he said.

“I’m serious,” Draco said, urgently. “My mother’s safe, and as soon as she’s well enough to travel, she’s taking a Portkey to a cousin in the south of France. Give me the word, and I’ll take you as far away from here as we can go; somewhere the Dark Lord will never find us. We can leave tonight.”

Harry felt a lump form in his throat. “Don’t. You know I can’t, Draco. I’m the Chosen One. My path was written for me before I was born.”

“Fuck the path,” Draco said. “Fuck Dumbledore, and the Dark Lord, and the fucking prophecy. _We_ have a destiny, Harry. Together. The Dark Lord is _nothing_ to that. Just a footnote in our story. Understand?”

Harry smiled despite himself. “That was awfully sappy, Draco. You’re not turning Gryffindor on me, are you?”

Draco’s lip curled. “On the contrary. You’re _mine_ now, and I won’t let you be hurt. That would be detrimental to my own happiness.”

Harry laughed. “Of course it would,” he said.

Draco sobered. “I never told you how sorry I am for your loss. Black, I mean. That’s who you were thinking about, wasn’t it? I know how much you loved him. And my aunt killed him. Sometimes I wonder how you ever saw past our history to fall in love with me.”

Harry smiled. “Well, it wasn’t easy,” he teased, nudging a knee between Draco’s. Draco obediently widened his stance, and Harry pressed them together, chest to hips. “You should know it was a very physical attraction to start with.”

Draco’s eyes sparked. “Oh? I did suspect as much. I am, after all, extremely attractive.”

“Oh, you have _no_ idea,” Harry said, with feeling, and kissed him.

Draco moaned as he licked his way inside, breathless and erotic, making Harry shiver with need. He smoothed his hands down Draco’s back, resting them in that delicious dip just above the curve of Draco’s arse. Just where Draco had touched him, to bring him back from the storm.

He broke their kiss abruptly. “Draco. In the Great Hall. Did you touch me here, on my back, deliberately?”

Draco’s eyes were dark with desire, lips glistening wetly. He shifted against Harry’s erection unconsciously, and Harry had to fight the urge to rip his lover’s robes off and just take him, right then and there. “I knew you were lost in your grief,” Draco said. “I knew touching you there would bring you out of it. I don’t know how. Instinct, perhaps. Or our bond.”

“Our bond,” Harry decided. “You put your hand on the base of my spine, exactly where Madam Pomfrey said your core of magic is. Your magic literally grounded me.”

Draco began to smile. “Hm,” he said, kissing a trail along Harry’s jaw. “I wouldn’t mind ‘grounding’ you again.”

“Oh yeah?” Harry said, capturing Draco’s bottom lip between his teeth, biting down hard enough to make him whimper. “Pretty sure that’s what I did, that day under the Quidditch stands. When I let my lightning ground itself in your prostate? Is that what you want? You want me to make you come, with just my fingers in your arse, again and again and again?”

Draco shuddered, his pupils dilating.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Harry said, and lowered him to the desk.

~*~

Pansy sat on the sofa furthest from the fireplace in the Slytherin common room, looking out at the cold, murky-green depths of the lake. Summer was well and truly upon them, and the weather was so warm that even the dungeons had no need of a fire. Which meant that the sudden storm at dinner had confounded everyone.

Well, almost everyone. Pansy had been in that little room in St Mungo’s. She’d seen Potter’s power. She knew he didn’t have control over it yet. Whatever emotion had evoked this latest storm, it had clearly been unintentional.

She looked down at the textbook in her lap, tracing a finger over the rune for destiny. Fate. She’d always known that Draco’s fate was inextricably intertwined with Potter’s, for better or for worse. But she could never have anticipated _this_.

A soul-bond, fated from birth. A prophecy, binding Potter and the Dark Lord together. A Horcrux clinging to Potter’s soul, which meant that he had to die in order for the Dark Lord to be defeated. Their Mage abilities, raw and untested; impossibly powerful, and impossibly dangerous. The Dark Lord, planning to use Potter’s power in the Dark Moon Ritual to take over the wizarding world. Her own Shakespearean plot, pitting Potter and Draco against each other in order to save Draco’s life… and in the process, allowing them to develop feelings for each other that could only end in disaster.

It was a hopeless fucking situation, and it broke her heart.

A sudden hush fell on the room, and she looked up.

Potter was framed in the doorway to the common room, his arm slung low about Draco’s waist. As always, Draco’s mere presence commanded the room, drawing the attention of their fellow students and diffusing it at the same time. They were aware of him the way birds were aware of a dragon circling in the air above them, their shivering bodies entirely focused on him, eyes darting towards him and then away, hoping not to be noticed.

Potter, on the other hand, drew their attention for another reason. He would never have Draco’s innate magnetism, but he was the Chosen One, and he hadn’t visited the dungeons since before the Invasion. A great deal had changed since then.

As Pansy watched, Draco’s heavy-lidded gaze travelled around the room, landing on her and lingering just a moment. A faint smile crossed his lips. Pansy narrowed her eyes at him, noting the slight disorder to his hair and clothes, and the way he was leaning ever so slightly against Potter. He was _wrecked_ , and he knew that she knew it.

“Evening,” Potter said, nodding politely to the room.

A couple of voices echoed his greeting.

Sadie Atwood stood abruptly, scowling. Her two most staunch followers, Trent and Maria, rose with her, hands on their wands. “This is the Slytherin dorms, Potter,” she said. “Gryffindors are not welcome here.”

“Oh, don’t be so tiresomely predictable, Atwood,” Draco yawned, leaning into Potter a little more. He was deliberately flaunting his fucked-out state, Pansy realised, where once he might have tried to hide what he perceived as a weakness. It was his strength now, and Pansy’s heart broke a little more at the realisation. “You have a Gryffindor here right now. Or did you somehow fail to notice the flaming red hair on Miss Weasley?”

Pansy glanced over, reluctantly, at Blaise and Ginerva. The two seemed to do nothing but snog and fondle each other in the most nauseatingly public fashion. Still, it was a good strategy. Blaise never involved himself in anything that did not benefit him in some way or another, and as a result, he was almost universally respected, if rarely trusted, by their fellow Slytherins.

Blaise raised an eyebrow. “The tides are turning, Atwood,” he agreed, twisting a strand of Weasley’s red hair around his finger. She blushed violently. “Do try to keep up, won’t you? The Gryffindors are our allies, now.” He spoke slowly, as if to a child, and there were a few mocking titters around the room.

“ _Your_ allies,” Sadie spat, looking furious. “Your betrayal sickens me!”

“Betrayal?” Draco said, wide-eyed. “You don’t mean of Voldemort?”

There was a collective gasp, and even Pansy sucked in a breath. Sadie’s face drained of colour, and she took an unsteady step backwards, stumbling into her friends.

“Draco,” Potter said, in a tone of surprise, his face full of pride and pleasure.

Draco smiled at him. “Take me to bed?” he asked, a little too loudly.

“Of course,” Potter said, taking his hand.

They walked through the common room like that, unashamedly hand-in-hand, and no one seemed inclined to stop them.

Pansy rose to meet them halfway. She didn’t miss the way Draco’s step faltered as Potter stopped, nor the way he was struggling to keep his eyes open.

She tried not to scowl. “I’d like a word, Potter. Tuck him in first, of course, but then I need to talk to you.”

Potter nodded, a little apprehensively.

Draco just looked sleepily amused. “Is this where you give him the ‘if you hurt my best friend, I’ll hex your balls off’ speech, Pans? Because, if I might remind you, you were the one who encouraged him to court me in the first place. You have only yourself to blame.”

Pansy smiled. “That may be, my love, but if he hurts you, it won’t be just his balls I hex off. Potter, don’t keep me waiting. Draco,” she rose up on her toes to kiss his cheek, “sleep well, darling.” She winked at him. “I’m sure you will.”

Any suspicions he might have had as to her intentions died at that. He smirked at her, and tugged on Potter’s arm. “Come on, then. The sooner you ‘tuck me in’, the sooner you can un-tuck me and have your wicked way with me. Again.”

Potter laughed, and they disappeared down the boys’ hallway together.

Pansy took her seat again to wait. Almost immediately, someone else settled into the chair opposite her. “So,” Daphne said. “I thought I would offer my congratulations on a game well played.”

Pansy thought about destiny and tangled webs. “Not a game, Daph. A dance.”

Daphne’s eyebrows rose. “To your tune, of course? But then, haven’t we all been? It seems you were right; at least about Draco. Potter has truly lived up to his reputation where it concerns our beloved Ice Prince.”

“Where it concerns us all,” Pansy said, quietly.

Daphne shook her head. “That remains to be seen. Draco believes in him wholeheartedly, and you know the majority turned because of the strength of his belief. But if he’s wrong – if he’s been blinded by love –”

“No true Slytherin would ever allow themselves to be blinded by love,” Pansy countered. “And Draco is, above all, a Slytherin.”

“Yes,” Daphne agreed, “and I am inclined to think he made the right decision, when he chose Potter over the Dark Lord. He’s already different. Lighter, like a burden has been lifted from his shoulders; more courageous. Freedom appears to agree with our Draco.”

Pansy smiled. “ _Love_ agrees with our Draco.” And then she glanced at the boys’ hallway, and her smile faded.

Daphne considered her for a long moment. “One of them is still dancing,” she said, quietly. “But it’s not Draco, is it?”

Pansy’s throat closed. “Did you See that?”

“I see you,” Daphne corrected her. “And you never intended for it to go this far, did you? You never intended him to fall in love.”

Pansy sighed. “I am not fool enough to believe I have any control over Draco’s heart. We can’t choose who we fall in love with.” She glanced across the room, to where Theo was buried in his Ancient Runes textbook. “You know that better than anyone.”

Daphne sighed. “Dear Theo,” she agreed. “I don’t know if he’ll ever work up the courage to actually declare himself.”

“You won’t tell him how you feel?” Pansy asked, curiously. An insight into the mind of Daphne Greengrass was exceptionally rare, and never free, but she was determined to take advantage of it. “Why?”

Daphne smiled. “My parents are rather single-minded when it comes to arranging the best matches for my sister and I. _Only_ the best. And Theo is, unfortunately, not the best.”

Pansy frowned. Theo was one of the most eligible bachelors of their age; fifteenth-generation pureblood, sole heir to the Nott fortune, and his parents had been loyal Death Eaters since the first war. He’d be swamped with offers, the day he turned seventeen. “What in Salazar’s name could your parents object to?”

“Oh, nothing at all,” Daphne said, examining her nails, “except he’s not the best.”

“You want Draco?”

Daphne curled her lip. “Don’t be obtuse, Pansy.”

“You want Theo,” Pansy corrected herself. “Your parents want Draco.” She glanced over at Theo again. “Will he sweep you off your feet, do you think?”

“If he thinks I’m worth it,” Daphne said. For a moment, there was an open, vulnerable expression on her face; of fear, and hope. “He’s gentle, and quiet, and serious, and far stronger than he knows. Stronger than _you_ know. I believe in him, and I’ll wait for him, as long as I can.”

“You love him,” Pansy said, surprised.

Daphne’s face closed off abruptly. “He followed me without question, when I chose to defect with you. And he almost died protecting me when I fell in battle. I just want to be sure we put our trust in the right person.”

Pansy shook her head. “I can’t give you that assurance, Daph. Until the war is won, and the Dark Lord is dead, you’ll just have to take it on faith.”

Daphne frowned. “There’s a Muggle saying about faith. Religious in nature, I believe. That faith without works is dead.”

“A _Muggle_ saying?” Pansy echoed, eyebrows raised.

Daphne shrugged. “Theo. He’ll devour any book he can get his hands on. He’s just rather more discreet about quoting from the Muggle ones, at least in public. This one seemed particularly apt for the situation.” She paused, meeting Pansy’s gaze. “You owe me a favour, remember. Draco would have failed his classes during Finch-Fletchley’s trial if I hadn’t helped you cover for him.”

Pansy winced inwardly. It had indeed been an enormous favour, and Daphne was well within her rights to demand reciprocal payment. “I won’t forget,” she said.

“Good. See that you don’t.” Daphne stood unhurriedly, tossing her dark curls over her shoulder. “I know you have some kind of deal with Potter, and he’s been good for Draco. So far. I won’t interfere, not unless it puts me or mine in harm’s way. But Potter has more than a little Slytherin in him. He hides it well, but you know as well as I do that that only makes him more dangerous. Be careful, darling.”

Pansy nodded. Daphne was right, of course, and she found herself wondering why she was constantly surprised by that. “I will.”

~*~

Harry sat gingerly on the side of Draco’s bed, tucking an errant strand of hair behind his lover’s ear. Draco was sound asleep, but something in him must have recognised Harry’s touch, because he nuzzled into his hand, murmuring his name. Harry’s heart swelled until he thought it might burst.

It had been a heavy-handed tactic, using Voldemort’s name in a room full of Slytherins. But even if Draco had done it simply for the shock value, to get Sadie off his back, it had still been an act of incredible bravery. After all, it wasn’t so very long ago that just the word on Harry’s lips had made Draco leap from his seat in fright.

He smiled, remembering their first date.

Draco stirred, a little, and Harry bent to kiss his forehead. He didn’t want to leave. He wanted to climb into bed with his boyfriend and curl up with him under the covers, safe and warm. Unfortunately, he owed it to Pansy to keep his word.

He pulled the covers up around Draco’s shoulders, tucking him in, and Draco murmured something. It was mostly unintelligible, but Harry heard his own name again. He left the room smiling.

Pansy was waiting for him at the top of the hallway. “Let’s go somewhere a little more private,” she said, quietly.

The Slytherins no longer watched him overtly, but Harry found the little sideways glances even worse. He let her escort him out of the dungeons, only relaxing when Pansy closed the common room door, and they were alone.

She turned to face him. “Potter.”

He smiled. “I think you can call me Harry, now. We fought together during the Invasion. You rescued me from Malfoy Manor. I’m dating your best friend. It’s time, don’t you think?”

“Very well,” she agreed. “Harry. I appreciate you leaving Draco to talk to me. I know you wanted to stay with him tonight.”

Harry shrugged. “I think Atwood would have incited a riot if I’d tried.”

“Oh, no,” Pansy said. “That’s not her style at all. She’s far more likely to lay in wait for you and _Avada_ you on your way out of his room in the morning.”

Harry stared at her. “Right. Thanks,” he said, dryly. “I feel much better now.”

Pansy shook her head. “You have nothing to fear from her, nor those who stand with her. The Dark Lord wants to kill you himself, and as far as I know, that order hasn’t changed. I doubt it ever will.”

“And Draco?” Harry asked.

“They won’t hurt him,” Pansy assured him. “If they were going to, they would have already.”

Harry frowned. “But he’s been sleeping alone, all this time.”

“But not unprotected. Draco’s bedroom is safer than a dragon-level vault in Gringotts, believe me. There is not a single person who could get into that room without his permission. Not even me, or you.”

“Oh,” Harry said, relieved. And she was probably right about Voldemort. It had been over a week since Malfoy Manor. If he’d been planning a swift retaliation, it would have happened by now. “I wanted to thank you, actually,” he said. “You saved Dumbledore, and I heard it was you who came up with the way into the Manor. Not to mention none of this would have been possible if you hadn’t come up with The Plan in the first place.”

Pansy’s lips twitched. “Is that capital letters I heard?”

He shrugged sheepishly. “You can thank Seamus for that.”

Pansy looked amused. “Well, you’re welcome, of course. But we need to discuss what happens now. ‘The Plan’ has come to its natural conclusion. We succeeded in turning Draco and rescuing his mother. Your relationship was never supposed to extend beyond that.”

“I know,” Harry said. “But I love him, Pansy. With all my heart.”

She sighed. “I want to say I’m happy for you, but you’re still lying to him. And when he finds out –”

“He doesn’t have to find out,” Harry interrupted. Pansy looked taken aback, and Harry felt hot shame curl in the pit of his stomach. “You don’t understand. He thinks we’re finally being honest with each other. I can’t lose him, Pansy. I _can’t_.”

Her face softened. “You do love him,” she said. Harry nodded silently. “Then you have to tell him the truth,” she said, gently. “Surely you see that? What you’re doing is wrong. The longer you leave it, the worse it will be. And if he hears it from anyone else –” She broke off. “A breach of trust of this magnitude could _destroy_ him, Potter. You realise that, don’t you? He hasn’t even considered the possibility that your feelings were ever a lie.”

Harry swallowed. He wanted to believe she was wrong. He wanted to believe he didn’t have as great a hold on Draco’s heart as she believed he did. But he knew exactly how Draco felt. Their bond was growing stronger every day. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You’re right. I’ll tell him. Just... not today, okay? He’s exhausted. I’ll tell him first thing tomorrow.”

“No,” Pansy said, sharply. “For fuck’s sake, Potter. Not on his birthday.”

“What?”

She tilted her head slightly. “June fifth. You didn’t know?”

“June fifth,” Harry echoed. Of course he knew. He’d just lost track of the date. “Fuck.”

Pansy sighed. “Wait until the evening, at least? Let him have his coming of age.”

Fuck. _Fuck_. This was Draco’s seventeenth. “I can’t do that to him,” Harry said, desperately. “Pansy, you can’t expect me to _ruin_ his coming of age! I know how important it is to purebloods! And I can’t just pretend everything’s okay tomorrow, and then rip him apart the next day!”

She looked upset. “I know. I'm sorry. But it wasn’t ever going to be easy. There’s a war coming, and you’re at the centre of it, which means Draco is, too. You need to be strong and united when it comes, and that means no more lies.”

Harry stared at her miserably. “What if he can’t forgive me? Us?”

“He will,” Pansy said, firmly. “We did it to save his life.”

But that wasn’t quite the truth, was it? Not for him, at least. He’d agreed to The Plan for several reasons, none of which had originally had much at all to do with saving Draco. He’d done it for Hogwarts, to foil Voldemort’s plot. To rescue the Slytherins, and turn Malfoy’s parents. But mainly, if he was painfully honest, to satisfy his own, selfish need to contribute something ‘real’ to the war effort.

It was unforgivable. Far worse than the Unforgivable Draco had used on him. That had been to save Harry’s life. Harry’s intentions had never been that pure, and he wasn’t sure he could forgive himself for that. So how could Draco ever forgive him, for any of it?

~*~

He didn’t go back to Slytherin that night.

At six o’clock the next morning, he slipped into the common room, carrying a large, empty tray, and two carefully wrapped packages in silver paper with green bows. He took the hallway to the left, sloping down into the depths of Hogwarts.

The middle snake on the sixth years’ door uncoiled at his approach, hissing a greeting. “Little Slytherin. We expected your return last night.”

It was almost a reproach, and Harry shuffled his feet. “Draco needed his rest,” he muttered. “Besides, it’s his birthday today. I had some things to do.” Fortunately, he only had one exam today, so he’d decided to forgo the last-minute swotting. “Can you –”

“The Heir of Slytherin comes,” the snake said.

Harry stared at it. Then he dropped Draco’s gifts, whirling to put his back to the wall. “Where?” he demanded, scrabbling for his wand. He looked left, right. The hallway was empty. “ _Where_?!”

“Do not be alarmed,” the snake told him. “Slytherin’s Heir slumbers still.”

Harry’s heart was pounding madly against his ribs. “What?” he said, blankly. “He’s _sleeping_?”

“When he awakens, the earth will _sing_ his power,” the snake said. “Earth and Air will unite, and no longer will the name of Slytherin be tarnished by the lust of power-hungry fools.”

Harry lowered his wand, puzzled. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Voldemort –”

The snake hissed again, and Harry could have sworn it was laughing at him. “Riddle is not the Heir, little Slytherin. Salazar Slytherin had a vision for this school. He was a Founder, and a powerful wizard. He was the Master of Snakes, a Natural-born Mage of the Astral Arts, and a Dragon Animagus. Young Riddle perverted _everything_ Salazar stood for.”

“Really?” Harry said, sceptically. “And here I thought killing Muggleborns was right up his alley.”

“A simplistic version of the truth,” the snake said, sounding offended. “Distorted by time and the fickle memory of humans. A thousand years ago, in the time before the Founders built this school, wizarding-kind lived in fear. Muggles hunted and killed the most vulnerable; the elderly, the sick and infirm. The children. There was no Statute of Secrecy, no protection when the Muggles became aware of a community through one of their own children. Salazar wished only for a place for pureblood children to learn, in safety and in secrecy.”

“But Riddle opened the Chamber using Parseltongue,” Harry pointed out. “That’s one of Slytherin’s gifts, right?”

“Parseltongue is a rare ability indeed,” the snake agreed. “But Salazar was not the first to talk to us, nor was he the last. There have been half a dozen Parseltongues since him. It is not even a gift unique to Slytherins, as you well know. Any number of them could have opened the Chamber.”

“But the basilisk –” The snake made an aggrieved hiss, and Harry remembered belatedly that the basilisk had been a kind of snake. “I’m sorry?” he said awkwardly, wondering how a snake carved on the lintel of a door in the dungeons could have possibly known or felt anything for a centuries-old basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets.

“Salazar loved and cared for all of his snakes,” the snake said, in a mournful tone. “His basilisks were his pride and joy, and when Godric drove him out of Hogwarts, they were left hungry and defenceless. Cassie was the last, and she slept for many years. Riddle was kind to her, and she did his bidding, and it led to her death. He murdered her!”

Harry stifled a snort. _Her?_ The basilisk had been a her, named Cassie? And what the hell did it mean, defenceless?

“Um,” he said, thinking that this probably wouldn’t be the best time to tell the snakes that he had been the one to kill the basilisk, “so the heir… you said Earth and Air? Do you mean…?”

“Indeed,” the snake said, unhelpfully.

“But he’s never – he denied –”

All the snakes laughed, this time, and their collective hisses sent shivers down Harry’s spine. “The Heir is as yet unaware of his inheritance. You will show him who he is, little Slytherin.”

The door clicked open, but Harry didn’t move. He’d learned the hard way to respect Divination and those who were gifted with it. “Can you see my future? If Draco and I… if we’ll be all right? With – with everything, and the war?”

There was a long pause. “Prophecy is capricious,” the snake said, at last. It sounded apologetic. “I cannot tell you what has not yet been written. But your path has intersected with young Malfoy’s in this time and place, whether by accident or some greater design. You have been fortunate enough to find love and companionship in the midst of a brutal, unremitting war. Love him, little Slytherin. For even those who seek to do you harm cannot take that from you, not in this moment of time.”

Harry swallowed, said a polite, “Thank you,” and scooped up his gifts, slipping through the door. He closed it quietly behind him.

There was no one in the room, and he closed his eyes, throat tight. Hot tears burned under his lids. He wanted to cry, but he couldn’t. Not yet. If this was the only time he got to spend with Draco ( _one more day, just one more_ ), well, then, he was going to make damned sure Draco was happy for every single minute they had left.

He scrubbed a hand over his face, gathering himself. He eyed Draco’s door handle for a moment, remembering Pansy’s assurances about the wards. But it just tingled against his palm, and slid smoothly open.

His eyes were drawn to Draco immediately; flat on his back and sprawled across the mattress. So very beautiful, even with his mouth parted and snoring a little.

He set the empty tray down on Draco’s desk, shoved his gifts under the bed, and crawled up onto it, ducking under the blankets. Draco hardly moved, obviously deeply asleep. Harry almost regretted having to wake him. Almost, but not really. He had a feeling Draco would be more upset if he left him to sleep any longer, and he knew for a fact that Draco would love the method of waking.

It was a new experience, putting his mouth on Draco when he was still soft. He made himself comfortable between his lover’s legs, starting with little licks; just tasting, teasing the soft flesh to hardness. Draco moaned in his sleep, shifting restlessly. Harry feathered his palms up Draco’s thighs, taking the soft balls in his hand and rolling them gently as he closed his mouth over Draco’s cock and sucked.

Draco jerked to wakefulness, his hands grabbing handfuls of Harry’s hair. Harry stopped, waiting.

“Mm,” Draco said, and his fingers relaxed a little, pushing Harry down again. Harry smiled around his mouthful, obediently bobbing his head to take more of Draco’s hardening cock.

He sucked leisurely, one arm across Draco’s hips, holding him down, the other fondling his balls. Draco made a whimpering noise, curling one leg around Harry’s back, his hips jerking up under Harry’s hold. His hands were clenching and unclenching in Harry’s hair.

It was incredibly arousing, knowing that Draco was desperately fighting the urge to push Harry’s head down, gag him on his cock. He couldn’t help himself, rubbing his own cock against the sheets as he sucked his lover off. It was a long, slow orgasm, rippling through Draco minutes later, and Harry came himself as he swallowed the salty, bitter fluid, shuddering with pleasure.

“Hey,” Draco said sleepily, releasing his tight hold on Harry’s hair and petting gently. “ _Hey_. Tha’ was nice.”

Harry couldn’t help it; he grinned. “Just nice?” he teased, resting his head on Draco’s thigh.

Draco’s eyes blinked open, and he looked down with a drowsy smile. Harry was forcibly reminded of those first few weeks, when Draco had been so tired all the time, using those terrible, addictive potions just to function for a few more hours. Draco had been _killing_ himself trying to carry out Voldemort’s task. No matter what it meant for them now, Harry knew he’d done the right thing. Maybe right back at the beginning, he could have backed out, left Draco to his fate. But the better he’d gotten to know him – the deeper he’d fallen in love with him – the more impossible it had become to leave him in that situation.

Maybe, in the end, Harry thought, the end really had justified the means. Maybe Draco would understand that.

“Very nice way t’ wake up,” Draco confirmed, his voice still slurred with sleep. He traced his fingers over Harry’s face, lingering over his bottom lip. “Wha’s the time, beautiful?”

Harry smirked. “Beautiful?”

“Don’ be coy, Potter,” Draco chided, eyes sliding shut again. He dipped his fingers between Harry’s lips. “Special occasion?”

“You know it is. Happy birthday.”

Draco’s eyes opened wide. “What?” He flung out a hand to his bedside table for his wand, casting a quick _Tempus_. “It’s morning!” he said, in an wounded tone. “You were supposed to wake me last night!”

Harry shifted, pressing a kiss to the side of Draco’s limp, sated cock. It twitched valiantly, and he smiled. “You needed the rest,” he said. “You’re still recovering from months of sleep deprivation. Don’t think I can’t see it. You fell asleep in my arms last night.”

Draco looked at him askance. “That’s sweet, Harry, but hardly –”

“Standing up,” Harry clarified. “Before we even made it to the bed.”

Draco paused. “Oh.” He threaded his fingers through Harry’s hair, his expression thoughtful. “I was working twenty-two hours a day, for months. I should be crashing, and crashing hard. But I’m not. I’m just a little more tired than usual.”

“You fell asleep _standing_ _up_ , Draco.”

“Immediately after you fucked me until neither of us could get it up anymore, and then used your fingers on me until I almost passed out,” Draco pointed out. “That little trick with the lightning –” He shook his head, wordless.

“You’re welcome,” Harry said.

Draco snorted, a smile tugging at his lips. “But you’re right,” he said. “I am still recovering, in a way. The restorative draughts were damaging my Occlumency shields, and no matter how much I hated it, I was chemically addicted. Not even the best Healers in the world could have prevented a painful detoxification process. But when I woke up after the Invasion, I was fine. I was able to rebuild my shields in a matter of hours – before our mission to the Manor. That shouldn’t have been possible.”

Harry sighed. “Greyback almost killed you. I couldn’t heal you without removing the taint of the potions, first.”

Draco nodded, clearly unsurprised. He curled a hand around Harry’s arm, pulling him up into an embrace. “You’re always saving me, Potter,” he murmured, into Harry’s hair.

“Always,” Harry promised without thinking, and then could have bitten his tongue out.

Draco rolled them, pushing himself up on his elbows to look down at him. “That’s not what I meant,” he said, frowning. “I meant it’s _my_ turn, now.”

Harry shook his head. “You’ve saved my life twice now, Draco.”

“And both times, I was righting a wrong _I’d_ committed,” Draco said, stubbornly. “This time, I’m going to get that Horcrux out for you. For _us_. Because we deserve a future together.”

Harry’s heart lurched. “I love you.”

“I know,” Draco said. “Now, about my –” He interrupted himself with a yawn. “My birth –” He yawned again, looking disgruntled.

Harry chuckled. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart,” he said. “Just for a little while. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

“Oh, very well,” Draco said, irritably. He settled in Harry’s arms, cuddling into him with an utter lack of shame. “Just for an hour, mind. It’s my birthday, and birthday sex is the bare _minimum_ I expect from my boyfriend on my coming of age. Understood?”

“Understood,” Harry said, making it the one promise he could actually keep.

But Draco didn’t hear him. He was already fast asleep, snoring softly in Harry’s ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title of the chapter is from the song by Leonard Cohen :)


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for your comments and kudos! xx
> 
> Also a big shout-out to Shadowmun, who just gifted me this lovely fic: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29535228. Go check it out, give her some love!! :)

**CHAPTER SEVENTEEN**

**DANCE ME TO THE END OF LOVE**

Part Two

There was a small fire flickering behind the grate in Draco’s fireplace, making the room toasty-warm. Draco woke nestled in his lover’s arms, with Harry pressing little kisses over his face. The enticing aroma of bacon and eggs filled his nose, and his stomach rumbled.

Harry pulled back, laughing. “Hungry, love?”

“Starving, apparently,” Draco said, wryly.

He watched with interest as Harry leapt out of bed and crossed over to his desk, where he’d noticed a empty tray earlier. Now, it was filled to overflowing with a full English breakfast; bacon and eggs, hot toast dripping with butter, sausages, fried mushrooms and tomatoes, hash browns, and a large pot of steaming tea. House-elves, Draco surmised, shifting to a sitting position so Harry could deposit the tray in his lap.

“Salazar’s purple panties,” he sighed, as he dug in. “This is marvellous.” Harry curled up next to him, stealing the occasional bite as Draco ate. “Breakfast in bed,” Draco said, contentedly. “I could get used to this.”

“Consider it your first gift,” Harry said.

Draco looked at him in surprise. “You know, I didn’t mean it before. I didn’t even realise you knew my birthday.” Not to mention, what with the war and the prophecy and the Horcrux, Harry had enough on his mind. Honestly, Draco would have settled for that frankly magnificent morning blowjob.

“I didn’t,” Harry said. “Well, I did, but I forgot. Pansy reminded me.” Draco raised an eyebrow, and Harry leaned over the side of the bed. “It’s all really last-minute, but I did try.”

Draco recalled the first time he’d seen Harry make that particular move, showing off the admittedly delectable curve of his arse. Their first proper date, in the Room of Requirement, when Harry had given him the misappropriated Time-Turner. He felt a frisson of excitement, and set aside the tray eagerly as Harry came up with two packages wrapped in green and silver.

Draco smirked. “How very Slytherin of you.”

Harry handed the gifts to him, flushing a little. “They’re not much.”

Draco turned the larger of the two over in his hands, perplexed by the look and feel of the packages. His eyes caught on a crease in the Spello-tape. “Did you wrap these yourself?” he asked, astonished. “By _hand_?” Harry nodded, and Draco stared at him. “You do know there’s a spell for that?”

Harry shrugged. “Yeah?”

“I don’t think anyone’s ever actually hand-wrapped a gift for me before,” Draco said, touched. “Thank you.”

Harry looked surprised, and then shyly pleased. “You’re welcome.”

Draco smiled at him, almost giddy with the love and happiness flooding through their bond. He slid his finger under the flap of the larger gift, unwrapping it slowly. When he realised Harry was jittering in place, he slowed further, amused at Harry’s impatience.

He uncovered a leather-bound book, its title faded. The words _Advanced Potions-Making_ , _by Libatius Borage_ were only just discernible.

“ _Oh_ ,” he breathed. It was worn, and fragile, and he opened it carefully, thrilled beyond words. Snape’s handwriting was all over the pages, correcting and improving upon the original instructions; thoughts and observations and breakthroughs all scrawled in the margins. It was a little piece of history, an insight into the work process of the finest Potions Master he knew, and an invaluable resource. He looked up at Harry, suddenly uncertain. “Are you sure you want to give this away? I mean –”

“Absolutely,” Harry said, firmly.

“But –”

“You said you wanted it. Besides, exams are over, and I’ve never liked Potions. Or that traitorous bastard. Honestly, I thought about just destroying it.”

Draco stared at him in shock. “Merlin, Harry! I know you don’t like him, but he’s on _your_ side.”

“Debatable,” Harry muttered. “And it’s our side, remember?”

“It’s _your_ side,” Draco retorted. “You’re the reason I turned. As for Professor Snape, he was taking his orders from Dumbledore, remember?” He took in the mutinous expression on Harry’s face, and sighed. “Yes, well, I can see why that wouldn’t endear him to you now. But Dumbledore is the leader of your side. For the time being, at least.”

Harry’s eyebrows rose. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re powerful,” Draco said. “I’ve told you before. You hold the hearts and minds of wizarding-kind in the palm of your hand. If you step up, they will follow you.”

Harry grimaced. “I’m not a leader.”

“Your friends followed you to the Department of Mysteries, last year,” Draco pointed out. “They followed you into the Manor, last week. They’ll follow you anywhere.” He looked down at Snape’s old textbook, tracing the binding with a finger. “ _I’d_ follow you anywhere.”

“Oh,” Harry said, blushing.

Draco smiled, and gave him a quick kiss. “Anyway, I appreciate that you didn’t destroy it. It’s a beautiful gift. Thank you.”

Harry’s blush deepened, and Draco chuckled. He didn’t think he’d ever grow tired of how endearingly embarrassed Harry got over the most simple things.

“Open the other one?” Harry said, flustered.

“Of course,” Draco said.

He set the potions book aside, and picked up the smaller package, unwrapping it with as much care and anticipation as the first. Harry was leaning forward now, looking nervous and eager. This one clearly meant something to him. Inside was a small, open box, with a watch lying on a bed of crushed black velvet. The watch sparkled like ice stalactites on a winter morning, made of white gold, with tiny diamonds inlaid tastefully around the edge. It was modelled after traditional wizarding family clocks, with locations such as ‘school’, ‘home’, ‘travelling’, ‘prison’ and ‘hospital’ around the edges of the face.

There was only one hand.

“It’s beautiful,” he breathed, lifting it out of the box. “Who did you –?”

“Me,” Harry said, looking embarrassed now. “But obviously you can change that. Ron says it’s traditional for fathers to give their sons watches for their coming of age, and I thought, because he’s in Azkaban, but then I thought, if your mother, or if – if he’s ever released, I didn’t want to step on any toes, so I made it into a family-style clock, but then I didn’t want to presume to add their names, or Pansy’s, I guess, so –”

“It’s perfect, Harry,” Draco interrupted. “I love it.” He fastened it around his wrist, and looked up to find Harry smiling. “You really made it yourself?”

“I had to,” Harry confessed. “I didn’t have time to get one made. I transfigured it out of a two-way mirror Sirius once gave me.”

Draco’s eyes widened. “What?”

“I wanted to,” Harry assured him, quickly. “I didn’t want to transfigure your coming of age gift out of just anything. I wanted it to mean something.” He hesitated. “That mirror could have saved his life, if I'd used it for its intended purpose. But I forgot about it, and he died.”

Draco stared at him.

Harry grimaced. “Sorry, I didn’t mean – I just meant the mirror was a gift from someone important to me, and it felt right to use it for something _good_. To make someone else important to me happy. You know?”

“Harry,” Draco said, slowly. “My aunt killed him. Not you.”

Harry's jaw tightened. “I know. But I fell for Voldemort’s ruse. Sirius came to rescue me.”

“I see,” Draco said. “You’re right. That was your fault.”

Harry froze. “W-what?” he stammered.

“It _was_ your fault,” Draco said, evenly. Harry’s look of shock was quickly turning into hurt and confusion and – awfully – acceptance. Always so eager to shoulder blame. It was entirely possible, Draco thought, that Harry would never be able to see the truth of himself behind the ugly weight of public opinion and the expectations of those who sought to use him for their own ends.

But that didn’t mean Draco couldn’t at least try to alleviate some of the guilt.

“You failed to learn Occlumency from a man whose very life depended on making sure you never discovered he was a double agent,” he said. “And because you failed to learn a discipline which takes _decades_ to fully master, you left yourself vulnerable to attack by a megalomaniac who used your very legitimate fears for the safety of your only real family to lure you into a trap. You acted rashly, Harry. Never mind that you were isolated from the Order, with Dumbledore and McGonagall gone. Don’t think I didn’t notice your attempt at veiled communication with Snape, in Umbridge’s office. You must have been _beyond_ desperate to try that, given your feelings about him. You knew it was a trap, but you went anyway, with only a fool’s hope that Snape was on your side. But it was your decision – _your_ decision, Harry, to take that risk, and try to save your godfather.” He paused. “Just like it was his decision to come after you, to save you.”

Harry was shaking his head now, protest in his eyes.

“I’m not absolving you,” Draco said, very gently. “I’m not denying that your actions contributed, in some part, to his death. Guilt is only natural, but it won’t bring him back. All you can do now is try to live your life in a way that honours his memory. In the way that he would have wanted you to.”

Harry’s breath hitched. “Draco –”

“I know,” Draco said. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

A single tear spilled down Harry’s cheek, and he wiped it away hurriedly. “This is not how I pictured this morning going,” he said, a hitch in his voice. “I’ve ruined the mood.”

Draco pulled him into an embrace. “Fuck the mood,” he said.

Harry buried his face in Draco’s neck with a muffled half-sob, half-laugh.

“Hey,” Draco said, petting his hair. “I’m here. Cry if you need.”

Harry was silent, but his shoulders began to shake, and something painful twisted in Draco’s chest. He’d never seen Harry like this before. Tears soaked into his tunic, silent but unremitting; an outpouring of grief and guilt that rocked him to his core.

“I’m here,” he said, again and again. “I’m here, sweetheart. I’ve got you.”

Harry’s sobs tapered off at last, and Draco pressed his lips to the dark hair. Harry sniffled, rubbing his nose against Draco’s shoulder. He looked up to catch Draco’s moue of distaste, and laughed waterly. “Sorry. Thank you,” he said.

Draco just kissed him again. “We should get cleaned up,” he said, casting the Tempus charm. “We have an exam in – ugh. Half an hour.”

Harry lifted his head. “Really?”

Draco heaved a melodramatic sigh. “I know. But we can always have sex later.” Harry looked bewildered, and he stifled a smile. “The book and the watch are perfect, and I am seriously considering moving you into my room so you can wake me up like you did today every morning. But you forgot my _birthday_ , Potter. You have a lot of making up to do.”

Harry snorted. “I seem to be working up quite a debt.”

“You really are,” Draco agreed. “What with breaking up with me,” he touched a finger to Harry’s bottom lip, lingering teasingly, “and now _this_ –”

Harry grabbed the front of his robes, shoving him onto his back. “Shall I start paying it back now, then?”

Draco relaxed into it, pleased. Nothing about their lives was easy, or simple. War was coming, and last night had been the first time he’d slept soundly in longer than he could remember. But none of that could change _this_. This, here, when Harry kissed him, sliding his fingers into Draco’s hair, claiming Draco’s mouth with tongue and teeth, absolutely sure of his right to Draco’s body, his heart. Their feelings were stripped bare for each other through the bond, and he knew exactly how Harry felt. There was no denying how much Harry wanted – _needed_ – him. No denying how deep his love went.

He closed his eyes, humming contentedly into Harry’s mouth.

Hands settled on his thighs, brushing up under the hem of his tunic. Draco tried to move back, but Harry followed him insistently, catching Draco’s bottom lip between his teeth and biting down in clear warning. Draco surrendered, letting his legs fall open.

“We’re going to be late if you keep that up,” he murmured, between sweet, messy kisses. Harry’s mouth was devouring him, hand rough and greedy and perfect on Draco’s cock, and Draco was sorely tempted to let him continue.

But Harry broke away himself, kissing his way down Draco’s throat to the bruise he’d made, days ago. He bit down again, and Draco groaned, lifting one, trembling hand to the back of Harry’s head, not sure if he wanted to hold him there or tug him away. Harry drew back slowly, fingers drawing up Draco’s cock as he pulled away. Draco shivered, trying to glare at him through the haze of frustrated lust. He was obviously unsuccessful, because Harry’s face broke into a mischievous smile. “You’re going to make us late,” he teased. “What are you thinking? You’re not even _dressed_ yet.”

“And whose fault is that?” Draco said irritably, heaving himself up. He cast a quick, unpleasant cleaning spell, pulled on a freshly-pressed set of summer robes, and then shoved a couple of books into his school bag.

He paused, touching the watch Harry had given him. He’d been barely seven years old the day his beloved Great-Aunt Talitha had fallen foul of a rogue chimaera. He could still remember his father’s panic as the family clock alerted them that she was in ‘mortal peril’, and then, just minutes later, the hand fading away, as if she’d never existed.

 _Not Harry_ , he vowed to himself. _Not in my lifetime._

Harry’s arms slipped around his waist, and he rested his chin on Draco’s shoulder. “I’ll order you one to replace it as soon as I can,” he said. “I know it’s not the same as a real watch.”

Draco covered Harry’s hand with his own. “I love this one,” he said, honestly. “Although your Charms work could use a little polish. It says you’re ‘home’ right now.”

Harry coloured. “Oh. Yeah. I guess it should have been the Dursleys, but Privet Drive has never meant anything to me. I’ve considered Hogwarts my real home ever since we started here, but I’d already added school, so when I added ‘home’... I guess I was thinking about you.”

It took a moment for that to sink in, and then Draco sighed. “Merlin, Potter. And you call _me_ sappy?” He turned in Harry’s arms, heart so full he felt as if it might spill over and flood the entire world. “You’re a sentimental fool,” he said. “You know that, right?”

Harry’s lips curved up into a smile. “I love you, too.”

~*~

Professor Sprout had prepared greenhouse eight for the Herbology exam, with twelve different pot plants set out on the side table. They were required to identify each one by name and species, list their magical properties, uses, and the guidelines for caring for them through the different stages of their life cycle.

It was an arduous two-hour written exam, and Harry found it difficult to concentrate once he realised that the fourth plant from the end was Dittany of Crete.

He remembered spreading the healing potion over Draco’s wound after Justin’s attack, Draco’s eyes fluttering closed under his touch, his lips parting for Harry’s kiss. It felt like yesterday, and yet a million years ago. That had been the first time they’d been intimate. And it had been a lie.

Or – had it? It had also been the first time his Mage magic had appeared. He wasn’t sure what that meant, but it felt like he’d been in love with Draco for forever.

After their exam, Draco dragged Harry to the infirmary to meet his mother. Harry tried to dig his heels in when he realised where they were headed, but Draco dismissed his concerns. “Believe me, Potter, she knows exactly how much we owe you. And she knows how I feel about you. That alone predisposes her to like you, even discounting the life-debts.”

Harry was not at all reassured. “She _knows_? But doesn’t she expect you to get married to some pureblood Slytherin and have lots of little heirs to carry on the Malfoy line?”

“Of course she does,” Draco said. “But marriage has nothing to do with who you love.”

Harry blinked. He was pretty sure that wasn’t true. “Sorry, what?”

“My mother knows you make me happy,” Draco said, firmly. “Right now, that’s the only thing that matters.”

He knocked on the quarantine room door where Mrs Malfoy was staying, and Harry felt panic grab hold of him. But before he could give into the impulse to flee, the door opened, and Narcissa appeared on the threshold.

She was almost ethereal in her flawless, frail beauty; as pale and perfect as a china doll. Her white-blonde hair was done up with a beautiful gold pin, her slender form draped with the palest of blue robes embroidered with white and silver stitching, and a faux fur cloak in white hugged her shoulders.

Harry watched as her whole face lit up at the sight of Draco, grey eyes drinking him in greedily, as if Draco was her whole world. It made that old, familiar ache for a mother’s love come roaring back. But then her eyes turned on him, and her smile didn’t dim. If anything, it brightened.

“Harry,” she said warmly, holding her hand out to him. “May I call you Harry?”

“A-all right?” he stammered, clasping her hand gracelessly. She bent slightly to kiss his cheek. “Uh, Mrs –”

“Oh no, call me Narcissa, please,” she said. “It’s so lovely to meet you at last.”

“Narcissa,” Harry parroted. “It’s nice to meet you, too. You’re, uh, looking really well.”

“Oh yes, dear Poppy,” she said, ushering them inside. “She really is the most remarkable mediwitch. Not only has she far surpassed my expectations of my recovery, but I’ve had the pleasure of observing her this past week. Her skill and compassion is both beautiful and profoundly humbling. I understand now why Headmaster Dumbledore chose her over the three Healers the Board of Governors had short-listed for the position.”

Draco scoffed. “Dumbledore certainly has a gift for seeing one’s potential. Especially when that potential benefits himself.”

“Draco,” his mother chided. Harry was interested to see him wince. “Please remember I am a guest here. Dumbledore has been very welcoming.” She smiled. “Unfortunately, the chairs are far less so, and I haven’t the energy yet for Transfiguration. Would you mind, my love?”

“I’ll do it,” Harry blurted. There was an awkward pause as both Malfoys looked at him quizzically. “I mean, not that Draco can’t – I mean, of course he can, it’s just –”

Draco sighed. He didn’t look angry; just resigned. “He’s worried I’ll overtax myself, Mother. Needlessly, of course.” He shook his wand into his hand and began Transfiguring the hard infirmary chairs.

Harry twitched forward involuntarily. He wanted to put his hand over Draco’s, tug it down, _kiss_ him into submission, if necessary. Unfortunately, he didn’t think that would go down particularly well with his mother. “Draco, please.”

Narcissa looked between them, clearly mystified. “Draco?”

“He’s overreacting, Mother,” Draco said. Her eyes narrowed, and he sighed. “The truth is, fixing the Vanishing Cabinet was more difficult than I’d hoped. I had to give up my place on the Quidditch team, my prefect duties... I could barely maintain a passing grade in the classroom. I had to use several restorative draughts, and other potions, to cope.”

“Not use. Abuse,” Harry said, in the interests of honesty.

Draco rolled his eyes. “But that’s over now. Harry removed the remnants from my bloodstream, and I haven’t touched them since. I’m fine. I was just particularly tired yesterday. Through no fault of my own, I might add,” with a sly glance at Harry. “But now he’s worried I’m a lot further from recovery than I actually am.”

Narcissa’s face just _collapsed_ , was the only word Harry could think to describe it. “Oh, my darling,” she said. “Oh, my little dragon, I am so _sorry_. What he did to you, what we _let_ him do to you –”

“He used us against each other, Mother,” Draco said. “You had as little choice as I.” She took his face in her hands, searching his eyes silently. “I’m not using them anymore,” he assured her. Her expression didn’t change, and his jaw firmed. “My word as a Malfoy.”

She studied him for a moment more. “I’m glad,” she said. There was an edge of steel under that gentle tone. “But I want a list of the potions you were using, and I want your _word_ that you will never touch them again without medical supervision.”

“My word as a Malfoy and a Slytherin,” Draco said, promptly.

Narcissa smiled. Harry wasn’t fooled, though. He had a feeling that breaking a promise to this woman would be a really, really bad idea, and Draco knew it. “Good,” she said.

She snapped her fingers, and Hogwarts house-elf wearing a pale pink tea towel popped into the room. Narcissa requested tea for three, and the house-elf was back in moments, holding a full sterling silver tea service and a small plate of chocolate biscuits.

She hefted the tray onto the bedside table, and bobbed a little curtsey. “Will that be all you be wanting, your ladyship?”

“Yes, thank you, Miffy. As usual, exceptional service.”

Miffy just about beamed, her smile stretching from ear to ear. She bobbed another curtsey, and disappeared with a _pop_.

Narcissa gestured for them to sit, passing out steaming cups of tea. “I wanted to thank you, Harry,” she said. “I did not dare to hope that there was a way out for us, and you proved me wrong. You have proven me wrong about a great many things, and I have never been so happy to be wrong in my life.”

Her smile was warm and embracing, and reminded Harry forcibly of Molly. He felt overwhelmed. He didn’t deserve Narcissa’s kindness.

“Draco tells me you share a soul-bond. I take it that’s how you restored him to health?” Harry nodded. “Well,” she said, “I admit that I believed Lucius’ stories about White Mages were just that: stories. But if my son says it’s true, then I believe him. What I do know is that, soul-bond or not, you made a choice to open your heart to Draco and provide us with sanctuary. You saved our lives, and you have my eternal gratitude for that.”

“You don’t have to thank me, ma’am,” Harry said. “I did it for Draco. I love him.”

Her smile widened. “I am pleased to hear it. You are an extraordinary young man, Harry. I hope you will let me know if there is anything I can do to assist you in the war effort.”

Draco set his cup down in its saucer sharply. “He will _not_ , Mother,” he said. “You’re going to France, as soon as possible. We agreed on that.”

“So we did, my darling,” Narcissa said, fondly. “But it will take some time for the Portkey to be arranged. And I would not have missed your coming of age for the world.” She opened the drawer in the bedside table, pulling out several elegantly wrapped gifts. A broad smile spread over Draco’s face. “Happy birthday, my darling,” Narcissa said, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “You are a man now, little dragon. Be strong, be wise, be gentle. _Je t’adore, mon chéri_.”

“ _Je vous remercie de tout cœur,_ _ma mere_ ,” Draco replied, solemnly.

Narcissa smiled. “ _C’est moi_ , _mon fils_.”

Harry was surprised and oddly turned on by the fluent French that had just rolled off his boyfriend’s tongue. Which was _so_ not appropriate for a tea party with Draco’s mother, so he pulled up his knees and nibbled determinedly on a chocolate biscuit while Draco opened his presents.

There was a soft, Moke-skin wallet, a gorgeous dragon-hide wrist holster, custom-made for Draco’s wand – _“that must have cost you half a vault, Mother!”_ , and a solid silver ring with the Malfoy crest, which Draco slipped onto his finger with a curious mixture of pride and sadness. The final gift was, of all things, a tattered old toy dragon.

Draco sucked in a breath. “I thought Father threw this away, years ago.”

“When you were five, yes,” Narcissa said, pouring herself another cup of tea. She caught Harry’s eyes and gestured to the teapot, but he shook his head.

There was a sheen of tears in Draco’s eyes. “You kept it?”

“You know I love your father,” she said, simply, “but a five-year-old is not a man. I couldn’t give it back to you then, but now you are a man, I thought it appropriate.”

Draco frowned. “But… I don’t understand. How did you get it here? You can’t have had it with you in the dungeons when they rescued you.”

Narcissa smiled enigmatically. “No, indeed. There are still some secrets of Malfoy Manor you have yet to learn, darling.”

Draco’s eyes widened. “Are you saying you can get items out of the Manor, without going back in?” Narcissa nodded, tilting her head in question. “Could you get a book out of the library? One specific book? Without alerting the Dark Lord to its disappearance?”

“Of course,” Narcissa said. “What – oh, of course.”

“Jeremiah’s _Theory of White Mages_ ,” Draco said, meeting Harry’s eyes. “If you can get it out of the Manor, it could mean everything to us. I think Jeremiah’s research could be the key to making sure Harry survives this war.”

“Then you’ll have it by the end of the day,” Narcissa promised. She frowned. “I do hope you’re not planning on doing anything dangerous with it, though, sweetheart.”

Harry couldn’t help himself; he laughed. Narcissa’s eyebrows rose, and he said quickly, “Sorry, ma’am. It’s just, usually he’s the one saying that to me. Apparently it’s different when he’s the one taking the risk.”

“Of course it is,” Draco sighed. “We’ve been over this. I don’t take risks unless they’re absolutely necessary, and I never take them without thinking the consequences through first. Thoroughly.” He fixed Harry with a stern look. “You could learn a lot from me, you know, Potter.”

Harry grinned down at his hands. “I already have, _Malfoy_.”

They took their leave shortly after that. Narcissa joined them at the door, putting a hand on Harry’s arm. “You won’t let any harm come to my son, will you?” she asked, eyes intent on his face.

“That’s not fair,” Draco protested. “We’ll protect each other, Mother. You can’t ask more than that.”

“Hey.” Harry nudged his shoulder gently. “You’re her son. She has every right to know where my priorities lie.” He looked at Narcissa. “He’s the love of my life, ma’am. Draco comes first. Always.”

“Good,” she said, smiling. “You should know that Draco has said as much to me, about you. I don’t know how much you know about pureblood values, having grown up outside our world, but family always comes first for us. You are his family now, Harry. Which makes you my family, as well.”

Harry was still reeling from the shock of _that_ when she moved forward and took him in her arms, embracing him with all the warmth and tenderness she had embraced Draco with, earlier. Harry tensed involuntarily, but she didn’t let go. And as the seconds (minutes, hours?) ticked by and she still didn’t let go, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to breathe in the scent of flowers and tea and a mother’s love.

~*~

Hermione was late to lunch that day.

What with exams, and trying to figure out how to remove a Horcrux from a living person (which had never been done before) using a soul-bond (something so rare that most of the alleged ‘research’ was actually just myth and conjecture) between two White Mages (a category of Mage no one except Malfoy’s ancestor had ever, apparently, even identified), she hadn’t had much time left over for party preparation.

Fortunately, Dobby had the food well in hand. Assisting him was a quiet, earnest house-elf called Miffy, who had jumped at the chance to prepare a feast for the ‘great Harry Potter’, although she was very reluctant to accept Hermione’s offer to pay them for their service. Hermione had insisted anyway.

Dobby and Miffy assured her that everything was on schedule, and, relieved, Hermione hurried back upstairs.

She was rummaging through her bag for the book she’d been using to cross-reference Mages against Dark magic, so she was almost at the Gryffindor table before she looked up.

She stopped short.

At the Slytherin table, well over half of the students were on their feet, lined up in a surprisingly orderly queue to the head of the table, where Malfoy sat. They were presenting him with gifts, one by one, and then returning to their seats to finish eating their lunch.

The pile of gifts was enormous. Sweets from Honeydukes, broomstick care kits, monogrammed stationery and quills, a growing stack of books. The books were mostly potions and Quidditch, Hermione noted, although she also saw several titles such as _The History of Magic: A Muggleborn Perspective_ , _The Theory of Dilution of Pureblood Magic: Fact or Fiction?_ , and even _Merlin Emrys: The First Muggleborn_. Not exactly the choices she might have expected from a group of pureblood traditionalists.

She looked around, bewildered. There were a few stares from the surrounding tables, but on the whole, everyone was treating the bizarre spectacle as if it was a normal, everyday occurrence. Even the professors looked disinterested.

She slipped into the seat between Harry and Ron.

Ron looked up from his turkey sandwich long enough to give her a quick grin. “Hey, you. Where’ve you been?”

She smiled back at him. “Party stuff. What’s going on?” He looked at her blankly, and she sighed, gesturing at the Slytherin table. “Malfoy?”

“Oh, that,” Ron said. “Coming of age ceremony. Usually political; people toadying up to families with power. Don’t see it much anymore, I guess, but he’s defected in the middle of a war. They’re making it a statement of allegiance. Everyone will be watching carefully to see who steps up, and who doesn’t. The time for sitting on the fence is obviously over.”

Hermione glanced over at Malfoy again, reluctantly intrigued.

“Do they have to do it _now_ , though?” Harry said, in a frustrated tone. “They’ve been at it for twenty minutes! When is he supposed to eat?”

Hermione had to suppress a smile. Harry was awfully adorable, sometimes. She really was rather enjoying seeing him happy and in love; _hopeful_ , for perhaps the first time since he’d realised the gravity of what he faced as the Chosen One. “You already have his heart,” she said. “Surely you don’t have to worry about his stomach anymore?”

She expected him to grin, or roll his eyes. But Harry just looked away, silent.

She frowned. “Harry? What’s wrong?”

His shoulders hunched. “Nothing. I don’t know. It’s just – his heart’s not really mine, is it? I won it under false pretences. And when I tell him the truth –”

Hermione exchanged a glance with Ron, who had frozen with his sandwich halfway to his mouth. “You’re going to tell him about The Plan?” she asked, cautiously.

“I have to, don’t I?” Harry said. “I did it all backwards. I should have come clean before we got back together. It should not have taken Pansy Parkinson, of all people, to make me do the right thing by him.”

Hermione frowned. “ _Pansy_ told you to tell him?”

“Yes,” Harry said. “And she’s right. I’m still lying. What kind of basis is that for a relationship? I should never have let it get this far.”

“I don’t disagree,” Hermione said, slowly. “But you’ve both been through so much, in such a short time. And he’s been good for you. You’ve been good for each other. You realise telling him the truth could –”

“Break us completely?” Harry said, flatly. “That had occurred to me, yes, thank you.”

“Maybe not, mate,” Ron said, in a bracing sort of voice. “He already knows you were in league with Parkinson. He knows your aim was to turn him and stop whatever he was planning –”

“No,” Harry interrupted. “He knows I wanted to _rescue_ him, because I love him.”

“Which is true,” Hermione said. Harry just stared at her, and she sighed. “But you didn’t to begin with, I know.”

“No one starts off in love, though,” Ron pointed out. “Just look at Hermione and I. We were friends for years, first. And Seamus fell for Parkinson _after_ their one-night stand together. Who cares when you fell for Malfoy? Surely what’s important is that it’s true now.”

“Except I lied about my feelings for him,” Harry said. “And I did it with the intention of manipulating him into defecting. If Hermione told you that the first time she said she loved you – hell, the first twenty times – it was a lie in order to manipulate you into doing something that put you and your mother in terrible danger, do you really think the fact that she means it now would make a difference? Would you even believe her?”

Ron winced. “Probably not.”

Harry deflated. “That’s what I thought,” he said. He glanced over at Malfoy again, and Hermione followed his gaze.

Gone was the pale, sickly Slytherin of a few weeks ago. Malfoy’s cheeks had filled out a little, his eyes were bright, and his hair had a healthy shine to it again. He looked cold and arrogant and unapproachable; truly the king of his domain.

As she watched, his eyes slid over to their table. There was a brief flash of concern, and then a smile spread over his face; a smile Hermione had never seen before. It took her breath away.

Who would have thought Malfoy could ever look like that? Like someone else was the centre of his world? Like _Harry_ was the centre of his world? How was it even possible that this was the same person they used to call the Ice Prince, who spat insults at them; Mudblood and orphan and blood traitor?

She looked back at Harry. He was stabbing his finger pointedly at the untouched sandwich by Malfoy’s elbow.

Malfoy obediently picked it up, even as another Slytherin came forward. He took a single bite before having to put it aside to accept the proffered gift, but not without throwing a laughing glance at Harry.

Harry shook his head in mock disapproval, but Hermione saw the quickly-concealed pain in his eyes. Pain, and grief, and a strange kind of… relief? As if some part of him had known that anything that made him _this_ happy could not possibly last forever. He was withdrawing, Hermione realised. Preparing for the end.

Hope was dying, right in front of her eyes, and she was helpless to stop it.


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for your comments and kudos! xx

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

**A NEW MOON RISES**

_If Muses could but seek to part the veil_  
 _Of hidden worlds, that shroud the serpent’s tail_  
 _Entwined in every striving human heart,_  
 _Then love’s redeeming power might impart_  
 _A vision of a future world to be,_  
 _Where dragons dance, and all is harmony!_  
~ Philip Boulding

Part One

After lunch, Draco had his Ancient Runes exam, and Harry used the time to prepare a picnic for two. After Draco’s exam, they had the rest of the day to themselves, and he fully intended to put the time to good use. If he could convince Draco, that was.

There was a small glade in the Forbidden Forest he’d come across, one miserable morning after Justin had broken up with him. At the time, it had felt horribly like the universe was taunting him, practically throwing such a romantic spot in his face just three days after his ex (who had so scornfully derided his romantic notions) had dumped him. But it was perfect now. The glade was beautiful, secluded and, best of all, completely safe.

He dragged his lover out to the Quidditch shed as soon as he was done. “Come on,” he wheedled. “You haven’t flown in months. I know how that feels. Umbridge took me off the team last year, remember?”

Draco looked fondly reminiscent. “Banned you from ever playing again, the way I remember it. With good reason.”

Harry wrinkled his nose. “Like she ever needed good reason. Besides, you were insulting us. You had to know we’d fight back.”

“With _words_ , Potter,” Draco said, haughtily. “Or even wands, should you have been so inclined. Not fists, you utter plebe.”

Harry couldn’t help it; he grinned. “I happen to know you prefer my hands to my wand, these days,” he teased.

Draco eyed him narrowly. “Well, _you_ certainly seem to prefer having your hands on me.”

Harry didn’t take the bait. “Always,” he said. “Now stop changing the subject. It’s only a short distance to the glade.”

“Which is, apparently, located in the middle of the _Forbidden Forest_ ,” Draco stressed. “For some reason, I thought we were past the ‘are you completely mental?’ stage of our relationship, but clearly not. Have you forgotten the last time we went into the forest together?”

“Voldemort’s not out there this time,” Harry pointed out.

Draco’s mouth dropped open in horror. “Are you – that thing – the thing that killed the unicorn – that was –? And you want me to go back _out there_?” His voice rose. “Are you _insane_?!”

Harry sighed. “He’s not out there now. And before you say there are other dangerous creatures –”

“Centaurs, for example?” Draco said. He held up a hand, counting them off on his fingers. “Werewolves, quoles, chimaera. Trolls, definitely. Kelpies, too, I’ve heard. Hippogriffs, probably –”

Harry laughed. “Okay, one, hippogriffs are not dangerous, as long as you don’t provoke them. You know that. Two, chimaera, quoles and kelpies only attack when you invade their territory, and we’re not going anywhere near their territories. Three, it’s not night-time, and even if it was, it’s not a full moon tonight –”

“It’s a new moon, actually,” Draco said, glancing up at the sky. The half-playful, half-panicked amusement in his eyes was replaced by a troubled expression.

Harry frowned. “And that’s a problem?”

“Not an immediate one, no,” Draco said. “But the Dark Moon Ritual begins on a new moon.”

“Oh,” Harry said, relieved. “But that’s good, right? Voldemort is nowhere near the castle, and he doesn’t have me, or you. He’s missed his chance.”

Draco shook his head. “Dark rituals like this only begin on the new moon. Aptly enough, as the new moon heralds new beginnings. But rituals begun in the dark of the new moon need the power of the waxing moon to finish what has been started.”

Harry felt a shiver go down his spine. “So when’s that?”

Draco shrugged. “The full moon is in two weeks. Perhaps it doesn’t end until he sacrifices his intended victim.”

“Well, that won’t be you,” Harry said, taking Draco’s hand. “Come with me into the Forbidden Forest?” Draco made a face, and Harry tightened his grip. “It’s safe, Draco. I wouldn’t take you there if it wasn’t. There’s a faerie ring around the whole glade.”

“A faerie ring?” Draco echoed. “And you just, what? Stumbled into it? Do you know how rare it is for a wizard to step foot into one of their sacred glades?”

“I took Care of Magical Creatures, just like you,” Harry said. While faeries occasionally used their rings to trap unwary travellers, they used inverse magic to protect their sacred sites from Muggles and other, more dangerous creatures of the forest. But while they were, for the most part, indifferent to wizards, their magic repelled wizarding magic, much like two magnets of the same pole repelled each other. “I found it by air. Flew down,” he explained. “They didn’t mind me being there. Please, Draco? It’s your birthday. I want it to be romantic.”

Draco’s eyebrows rose. “If you’re planning to get into my pants, I’m warning you now, there will be none of that if we get trampled by trolls, or ripped apart by hippogriffs, or driven out of the Forest by centaurs with spears at our backs –”

Harry covered his lips with a finger. “Faerie ring, remember? We’ll be fine.”

“You know my Great-Aunt Talitha was killed by a chimaera?” Draco said, slightly muffled.

“No chimaeras,” Harry promised, replacing his finger with his mouth. He kept the kiss chaste; soft and sweet, coaxing Draco’s lips out of their pout. It was long minutes later that he drew back, and Draco’s eyes fluttered open slowly. “We’ll be fine,” Harry assured him, letting his thumb linger over Draco’s kiss-swollen bottom lip. Draco just blinked at him languidly, and Harry eased away, pressing one of the broomsticks into Draco’s hand. He took one measured step back, holding Draco’s gaze, and then flung himself onto his own broom. “Race you!” he called, and zoomed towards the Forest.

There was a moment of silence behind him, just the wind in Harry’s ears, and then he heard an outraged shout. “Potter! You bloody _cheat_!”

He laughed.

~*~

He slowed when he reached the edge of the glade, hovering just over the tops of the trees as he waited. Draco had apparently forgotten the chase entirely, and was flying death-defying loops, whooping. As Harry watched, he leaned forward on his broom to pick up speed, and then dove so fast towards the ground that Harry’s heart jumped into his throat. Before he could even open his mouth, Draco shot up into the air again and straight into a high speed figure-eight. Upside-down.

“Draco!” he cried.

Draco spun down and out in a corkscrew-turn that Harry had never seen anyone but professional Quidditch players attempt before, and then turned his broom towards the Forbidden Forest. He looked flushed and happy when he reached Harry.

“Cheat!” he accused again, breathlessly. He didn’t look at all bothered by the fact. “You just know I’d win in a fair fight.”

“That was amazing,” Harry admitted. Whether he’d ever recover from the fright was another matter entirely. “Why in Merlin’s name don’t you fly like that in Quidditch?”

Draco scoffed. “Maybe because I’m too busy looking for the Snitch?”

Harry stared at him. He’d caught the Snitch several times with moves not too dissimilar to the ones Draco had just used. Draco had to know that. And yet… he’d always been so restrained on the pitch. Harry would bet a pile of galleons on it being fear of failure. Specifically, fear of failing his father. Which was ironic, because Draco had always been the most challenging of Harry’s opponents. If he lost that debilitating fear, he might actually win.

Not that Harry was going to tell him that. Hell, no. Even if a seventh year at Hogwarts was looking like little more than fantasy at this point, it was nice to pretend they’d play each other again one day.

“Yeah?” he said instead, pushing his broom a little closer to his lover’s. “Why is it that you never seem to win against me, then?”

Draco’s mouth dropped open in outrage. “Maybe because you’re a bloody cheat?”

Harry chuckled. “You know that’s not it. You know exactly why you never win against me. Why you’ll _never_ win against me.” Draco’s eyes widened, and then darkened, and Harry knew he knew they weren’t talking about Quidditch anymore.

“I know no such thing, Potter,” he said, but his voice was a little strained.

Harry just smiled slowly, nudging his broom even closer, so that their bristles tangled together. Draco yelped, jerking back, but it was too late. They dropped like a stone. Draco cried out, scrabbling in his robes for his wand. Harry just held his hand towards the ground, and the wind responded, easing their fall to a controlled drift. It cradled them, guiding them safely to the ground.

Draco stumbled off his broom, and Harry caught him, steadying him. “ _Fuck_ ,” Draco said, shakily. “What in Salazar’s name –?”

“Sorry,” Harry said, grinning. “I couldn’t resist.”

“Bloody Gryffindor,” Draco said. He let Harry take his weight, legs trembling. “You’re not sorry at all. What did you do?”

“Used Air Magic to stop our fall,” Harry said. “I thought you might use Earth Magic to soften the ground, or make us bounce, or something. You were the one who told me to embrace what we are, remember? You told me not to use my wand, when we faced the Death Eaters in the Room.”

Draco shook his head. “I was working on instinct, then. All this year, I’ve been powerless. You have no idea how it felt, to suddenly realise I had been given the gift of elemental magic. It was the stuff of dreams. I was _drunk_ on it. I did things I’m sure I couldn’t replicate, now. At least, not without years of practice.”

Harry frowned. “You said Elemental Mages can’t be trained.”

“Ordinary wizards can’t learn to use elemental magic,” Draco corrected. “But being born with an affinity for it doesn’t mean we don’t need to practice. We’ve been reaching out with our emotions so far, throwing around the magic with all the finesse of a Beater throwing his weight around on the Quidditch field. That’s hardly effective.”

“You created that sanctuary in my mind,” Harry reminded him. “That was pretty skilled work. And effective.”

“Perhaps,” Draco acknowledged. “But I was desperate; out of my mind with fear. I don’t even know what I did, now. We are a very long way from understanding the limits of our bond, let alone the individual gifts we’ve been given. Perhaps once Mother gets us Jeremiah’s book –”

“We’ll know more, yes,” Harry agreed. “But you said yourself, instinct seems to be working pretty well for us so far.”

“I also said we need to be as prepared as possible,” Draco reminded him. “Instinct won’t be enough to remove your Horcrux.”

Harry grimaced. “Yeah.” The Horcruxes were almost as dangerous as Voldemort himself; perhaps even more so. After all, the ring had defeated Dumbledore, the strongest wizard Harry knew. The wizard even _Voldemort_ was afraid of. There was a certain irony in that, he thought. “We can worry about that later,” he decided. “Right now, I believe you wanted birthday sex.”

Draco snorted. “Oh, I did,” he drawled. “I’m just not sure _you_ deserve it, after that performance.”

Harry wasn’t deterred. “I’m going to strip you down right here, lay you on the ground, and fuck you,” he said, roughly. “I could take you anywhere, anytime, and you’ll spread your legs and beg for more, every time. You know why?”

Draco’s breath hitched. “Potter –”

Harry tutted. “None of that, now,” he said. “It’s Harry, when I’m seducing you. You know that.” He muffled Draco’s protest with a kiss. Harry could hear the swearing quite clearly through their bond, and he smiled inwardly, biting down on Draco’s lower lip in punishment. Draco groaned, and Harry slipped his tongue into his mouth, kissing him as he pressed him back, step by step, until he had him up against a tree at the edge of the glade.

Draco opened his eyes as Harry’s hands settled gently on his shoulders, pressing down. “It’s _my_ birthday, Potter,” he pointed out.

“Yes,” Harry said, and increased the pressure of his hands. Draco sank to his knees obediently, pupils already blown wide. Harry stroked his finger over Draco’s bruised bottom lip. “I love you,” he murmured, unzipping his fly one-handed. “Merlin, so much.”

Draco hesitated, and Harry pressed his thumb into the corner of Draco’s jaw. Draco made a soft noise, mouth opening, and Harry slid his cock into that wet heat with a groan. He gripped the back of Draco’s head with one hand, the other braced against the tree, and began to rock back and forth, revelling in the soft strands under his fingers, the fragile skull, the sucking pressure on his cock. Draco didn’t gag; he never did. But he wasn’t swallowing, either, and Harry wanted in deeper.

“Stubborn,” he chided, and slid deliberate fingers down the line of Draco’s throat as he thrust in again, hard. Draco swallowed involuntarily, and Harry slid down his throat until Draco’s nose was pressed up against his pubic hair. Harry closed his eyes, enjoying the rippling around his cock.

It felt far too soon when Draco’s hands started pushing at his hips, and Harry flicked his finger, filling his lover’s lungs with air.

Draco froze.

Harry’s eyes opened wide in sudden, terrified realisation. He tried to pull back, but Draco just grabbed his hips and held on, bobbing his head deeper. Harry held still, heart hammering against his ribs. “Draco –”

Draco sucked fiercely, and Harry’s knees weakened. He fell forward a little, fingers digging into the bark of the tree.

“Three taps,” he said, unsteadily. “Tap my leg if it stops working. I mean it. Do it now to show me you understand, or I’m pulling out, right now.”

Draco didn’t even pause; he tapped Harry’s leg three times with one, long finger, and then cupped Harry’s balls in his hand and swallowed deliberately, twice. Harry gave a strangled yelp as his orgasm flooded through him, pleasure shivering down every limb, curling his fingers and toes. Draco swallowed him down, every drop, and then kept sucking until Harry was so sensitive that it was almost painful.

He pulled out, wincing. “ _Ow_. Not nice, Draco.”

Draco looked up at him, smirking. His lips were swollen and red, and Harry’s limp, too-sensitive cock twitched at the sight. “Whoever said I was _nice_?”

“No one would dare,” Harry agreed. He waited a beat. “Except me, of course.”

“Mm,” Draco said. He smiled up at Harry, baring his teeth. “Well, no one could accuse _you_ of lacking courage.”

Harry grinned. “You just don’t give up, do you? Even though you know you’ll always submit, in the end. Why is that, exactly?” Draco’s eyes narrowed, and Harry sank to his knees in front of him. He cupped Draco’s face in his hands, kissing that beautiful, obstinate mouth. “Come on,” he murmured. “Tell me.”

He slipped his hands inside Draco’s robes, searching for the rows of buttons, flicking each open with the ease of long practice. He could have used wandless magic to do it; it was becoming easier and easier, now he knew how to access their bond. But Draco was so responsive like this. Eyes closed, fingers clutching at Harry’s shoulders, his body loose and pliable, breath hitching every time Harry tugged and pushed at him to get to another row of buttons. When Harry finally touched skin, he swayed forward with a shuddering moan.

Harry captured his mouth again, skimming his fingertips up Draco’s inner thigh, teasing lightly over his straining erection. Draco whined in the back of his throat, hips thrusting forward helplessly. Harry closed his eyes. Merlin, he loved this. Loved _Draco_.

“Tell me,” he insisted. “Why am I the only one who can strip back your layers, make you submit?”

Draco lifted a trembling hand to touch his lips. There was hectic flush across his cheekbones. “Because,” he said, shakily. “Because you’re Harry Potter.”

“Not even close. Try again.”

Draco opened his eyes, looking faintly puzzled. “Because you like it that way?”

“Of course I do,” Harry said. “But that’s not why, either. Tell me. Tell me why every inch of you – your body, your heart, your _soul_ – belongs to me. Tell me why I can push you past limits you never even knew you had, and even then, when you’re crying and begging and pleading with me, you’re still saying _yes, yes, yes_ through our bond, with your body, with your magic. Tell me why I have that power over you.”

Draco raised his eyebrows, and smiled. “Because I give it to you.”

Harry relaxed. “Exactly.” Right from the start, Draco had spread his legs for him; willingly, eagerly. Harry didn’t understand it. He’d certainly enjoyed bottoming for Draco, and he would do it again in a heartbeat. But Draco didn’t just bottom. He _submitted_. He let Harry take unconditional control, every time. And now he’d given his heart to Harry, and Harry was dreading the fallout more and more with every passing hour. He saw very little he could do to protect him from it, but maybe this would help, in some small way. “I learnt a long time ago that people only have the power over you that you give them,” he said. “ _Only_ what you give them.”

“I know that, Harry.” Draco’s eyes had softened. “Slytherin, remember? Honestly, I’d hoped you didn’t understand, especially in the beginning. I gave you far too much, far too quickly.”

“Oh,” Harry said. He felt a bit stupid. “Why?”

Draco raised his eyes heavenward. “Merlin help me. Because it’s _good_ , Potter. And because I’ve never been one to deny myself something I want. I’ll have everything you can give me, and I’ll give you everything I have. Because I love you, too. And I trust you.”

Harry felt his eyes well up. “I don’t deserve that.”

Draco sighed, very deliberately fingering the edges of his open robes, drawing Harry’s attention downwards. It was an invitation, or perhaps a taunt, which usually amounted to the same thing with Draco. “I don’t give my trust to just anyone, you know,” he said. “You make me _relish_ it. Knowing how much you need me, how _fierce_ your need is to protect me –” He paused, waiting until Harry forced his eyes up again. There was a smirk on his lips. “You’re right. There’s power in that. But it is also very, _very_ hot.”

Harry couldn’t argue with that. “I’m going to fuck you now,” he decided, grabbing Draco’s tunic and yanking it over his head. Draco made an unhappy noise, smoothing his hair back into place. Harry ignored him, admiring the flat plane of Draco’s abdomen, the way his flushed cock jutted up from the nest of blond curls.

Draco spoke just as Harry reached out a hand to touch. “I know you’re not planning on doing it here on the ground,” he said, mildly. “I _know_ you know I deserve better than that.”

Suitably chastened, Harry changed direction, taking Draco’s hands in his own and drawing him to his feet. “You’re right,” he acknowledged. “Happy birthday, sweetheart.”

Draco followed Harry’s gesture, and his eyes widened. Harry let go of his hands as he took a couple of steps towards the centre. The glade was enclosed all around by thickly-growing trees, carpeted with lush grass and clumps of wild, fragrant broom with delicate yellow flowers. A small, sparkling-clear stream meandered its way along the edge of the tree, splashing over pale stones and disappearing into the shadows. There were birds trilling sweetly overhead, and tiny faeries danced and played in the beams of fading sunlight, skipping across the water and darting in and out of the broom.

Harry only had eyes for Draco, however; stark naked in the middle of a faerie glade. His body was lean and strong and perfect, skin glowing, white-blond hair loose and flowing around his face.

“It’s beautiful,” he breathed.

“Yeah,” Harry said, softly. “You are.”

~*~

Pansy had very little appetite that night. There was a cold, hard lump in her stomach. Draco was missing from dinner, and so was Potter. What if Potter had told him about The Plan already? What if he’d made a hash of it? He’d been genuinely distressed by her ultimatum, and grief could make even the sanest wizard behave irrationally. They’d all seen that, in recent months.

She regretted telling him it was all right to do it on Draco's birthday. How would Draco ever be able to see past the cruelty of that to forgive him?

And he _had_ to forgive him.

She sighed, pushing her dessert bowl away.

Several owls swooped in overhead, carrying newspapers, and Pansy’s heart skipped a beat. She had a subscription to the Daily Prophet, of course. It was her duty to stay abreast of events that shaped their world, political or otherwise. And while the Prophet was rarely more than gossip-mongering (which had its place, admittedly; Pansy always read the society pages cover-to-cover), they were also usually the first on scene when something truly important happened.

More owls swooped in, and a newspaper dropped into her bowl, splattering cream and pudding all over the table. She grimaced, fishing it out.

‘MASS BREAKOUT FROM AZKABAN’ screamed the headline.

She didn’t bother with a cleaning spell, ripping the newspaper open.

_Believed to have been orchestrated by You-Know-Who... Head Auror Robards arrested on suspicion of collusion... escapees include Severus Snape, accused of the attempted assassination of Headmaster Albus Dumbledore... Lucius Malfoy... the Lestrange brothers, Carrow siblings... Nott, Crabbe and Goyle... Antonin Dolohov... Augustus Rookwood... The public is warned to be extremely vigilant... do not approach... armed and dangerous..._

The Great Hall erupted.

Or at least, three Houses did, waving their newspapers around and shouting at each other. Slytherin was dead silent.

So many of them had defected, and not all of them had been supported in that decision by their parents. Sadie’s group had been attempting to capitalise on the resulting uncertainty, and she was smart enough to recognise that the escape of so many high-profile members of the inner circle could well be the tipping point she’d been waiting for.

Pansy carefully didn’t look at her. Their fellow Slytherins were watching them both for any sign of weakness that might tell them, once and for all, which side to choose.

She was vaguely aware of the professors calling for order, but when Dumbledore stood and cast _Sonorus_ on his throat, booming out, “EVERYONE PLEASE CALM YOURSELVES,” she found herself jumping with everyone else. “There, now,” Dumbledore said gently, returning to his normal voice. “If we could all please take our seats. I understand that this is very upsetting, but we must not succumb to fear. Our enemy wants us small and frightened, and that is why we must hold our heads high, and remember that we cannot be brave if we are not at least a _little_ scared. Fear only makes us stronger, braver, wiser. It cannot conquer us. _He_ cannot conquer us, if we stand united. We are a family. Let us remember that, and stand firm in our faith in each other, and in ourselves.” He smiled around at them all. “Now, I believe there is a very fine sticky toffee pudding that we are all neglecting. I suggest we apply ourselves most strenuously to the task of enjoying it, and put aside our worry for another day.”

He sat down again, and absorbed himself in his bowl of pudding.

There was a short silence. Then slowly, the chatter started up again. Very few people looked interested in their dessert, but their voices had settled to just above normal conversation level. Pansy was relieved. Her own House-mates were unlikely to have been swayed by such a speech, but at least with the noise back to a reasonable level, she could think again.

“What are we going to do?” Greg said. “Our dads are _out_.”

“They’ll want us back, for sure,” Vince agreed, glumly. “Draco, too.”

“No,” Pansy said. “The Dark Lord will never take Draco back.” Which made the fact that he’d broken Lucius out of Azkaban all the more worrying, but she saw no reason to burden the two boys with that. “Draco’s made his choice, and he’s standing by it. The question is, are you going to stand with him, or are you going to go running back to your fathers, to bow and scrape at a madman’s feet?”

“We’ll stand with Draco,” Greg said, squaring his shoulders.

“Course,” Vince grunted, but he looked worried.

“Theo?” Pansy asked.

Theo looked up from his perusal of the newspaper. “My mother knows I’ve defected, and she’s supportive. Father will defect once he learns we’ve turned, I’m sure of it. Family comes first.”

“Family comes first,” Vince echoed, nodding. Greg patted him on the back.

“I notice there’s no mention of _your_ father in the article, Pansy,” Blaise murmured.

Pansy smoothed her hand over her copy of the newspaper. “No,” she said. Her father had betrayed the Dark Lord to save her and her mother, and she had not had the slightest expectation of seeing his name among the escapees. Just like Draco, he would never be welcomed back into the Dark Lord’s ranks.

“The tides are turning again,” Theo mused. He was watching Sadie Atwood and her group, who had their heads together, talking in low, intent voices. “This is going to cost us.”

“We all made vows,” Millie said, unconcernedly. “We’ll all keep them.” She had finished her own dessert, and was eyeing Pansy’s. Pansy pushed it over to her gladly. Her appetite was well and truly gone. Millie raised her spoon in thanks.

“Once a turncoat, always a turncoat,” Blaise drawled. “Isn’t that what they say?”

“Not you,” Pansy returned, sharply.

Blaise looked thoughtful. “No. Like you, dearest Pansy, I take my promises very seriously.”

Pansy’s heart sank. Blaise had more than fulfilled his end of their bargain. He’d supported their defection to Potter’s side. He’d fought during both the Invasion and the Manor rescue. Without him, her whole plan might very well have come to naught. His support had lent credence to the idea of defection, and convinced countless others to cross over with them. She owed him, and they both knew it.

She nodded slightly, and a satisfied smile spread across Blaise’s face.

“Where is Draco?” Daphne asked. “He’ll want to know about this. His father –”

Pansy broke eye contact with Blaise. “No,” she said. “Leave him be. Let him have what’s left of his birthday. I’ll tell him myself, tonight.”

~*~

The glade was lit with dozens of faeries, resting on the branches of the trees, flitting through the flowers, or kicking lazily downstream on the backs of leaves.

Draco lay on his back on the picnic rug, one hand behind his head, the other trailing idly through the cool water of the stream. Occasionally his knuckles would brush one of the leaves, sending it spinning off in another direction, and the musical tinkle of a tiny faerie’s delighted laughter would fill the air.

Harry was engaged in planting kisses all over Draco’s stomach, apparently determined to map every inch of him. One hand was curled possessively around Draco’s inner thigh, rather perilously close to his groin, but Draco was in no danger of getting hard again. Not after three orgasms already. He let his eyes drift shut.

“I love you,” Harry murmured, between kisses.

Draco brought his hand down to tangle in Harry’s hair. It was thick and soft under his fingers, and he wanted to lay like this forever, with the breeze ruffling his hair, and his lover’s mouth on him; not in an attempt to arouse, just love. He felt cherished, and that was something he would never tire of. “I love you, too,” he said.

They were quiet, then. Harry’s kisses slowed, and then stopped, and Draco realised he’d fallen asleep, head pillowed on Draco’s stomach. Loath to disturb him, Draco used his wand to Summon his discarded robes, digging in a pocket for one of the library books he’d found which referenced core magic. He enlarged it and set it hovering above his head, using his wand to turn the pages as he read.

Eventually, Harry sighed and shifted. “Hm. Draco?”

Draco tugged affectionately at a strand of dark hair. “You don’t make it a habit to fall asleep on anyone else, do you?”

Harry stretched, yawning and rubbing at his eyes. “Huh?”

Draco shook his head, smiling. “I’ll take that as a no.” He marked his page with a String Charm and set the book aside, sitting up. Harry grumbled sleepily as he was dislodged, but sat up, too. “I think we should talk before we head back up to the castle.”

Harry looked, suddenly, wide awake. “Talk?” he said, apprehensively.

“About your impetuous and highly unconventional use of Air Magic earlier?”

Harry went bright red. “I’m so sorry,” he muttered. “That was stupid and dangerous. I could have really hurt you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Draco scoffed. “You could never hurt me. And yes, it might be dangerous, but that also makes it useful. Theoretically, if you could breathe for me, you could also stop someone from breathing.”

Harry paled dramatically. “You mean – kill them?”

Draco shrugged. “Just because the Wild Magic grants you a gift, doesn’t mean you have to use it. But if it’s your life or the Dark Lord’s, why shouldn’t you use any tool at your disposal?”

“No,” Harry said. There was panic in his eyes. “No, you don’t understand. I didn’t use my wand. I didn’t even _think_ it, not properly! Not even Voldemort can do that, and he’s a Dark Mage! No wonder they used to think White Mages were evil. Maybe we are – maybe _I’m_ –”

“Hey,” Draco interrupted, alarmed. He grabbed Harry’s hands, stilling him. “Stop. There’s no evil in you. You’re a good person with a dangerous gift. That doesn’t make _you_ dangerous. And it doesn’t make you a killer. Far from it.”

“Except I’m already a killer, aren’t I?” Harry argued, wildly. “I killed Professor Quirrell when I was eleven. My soul’s already corrupted. And the prophecy says I have to at least _try_ to do it again, and now I could just – suck the air right out of his lungs without even saying a word, or lifting my wand! And I don’t _want_ to! Fuck!” He pulled his hands away in agitation, running them through his hair. “What the fuck is wrong with me? He killed my parents! He killed Sirius! He forced you to h-hurt me, he hurt your mum, he’s got Remus, and here I am, safe behind Hogwarts’ wards, and I don’t even want to do the job I’m supposed to do!”

Draco stared at him, stunned. “Harry.”

“People are suffering and dying while I do nothing!” Harry bit out. “I should want to fulfil the prophecy. Merlin, maybe I _am_ evil, maybe the Horcrux –” He broke off, and Draco could hear the agonised doubt in his voice.

It made his heart ache.

“Idiot,” he said tenderly, brushing Harry’s hair back from his forehead. It had come loose from whatever charms Harry was using to tame it these days, and it was unruly and beautiful. “You shouldn’t use the hair charms, you know,” he said, thoughtfully. “I prefer it like this.”

Harry flushed in surprise. “Oh. Pansy said –”

Draco’s eyebrows rose. “Pansy said, did she? I should have known. She picked out the new robes, too, I suppose. You certainly have no taste whatsoever to speak of.”

Harry’s eyes sparked. “No?” he said, rallying. “Not even my taste in men?”

Draco was surprised into a laugh. “Touché. All right, I concede that one. But you are an idiot. Nothing can taint or damage a wizard’s soul except that wizard himself. If anything, not wanting to murder the Dark Lord proves that. No matter how deeply that Horcrux has its claws in you, it can’t change who you are. Only you can do that.” He paused. “As for Quirrell… whatever you did to him, Harry, you were a child. You can’t blame yourself for it.”

“I killed him, deliberately,” Harry said. “He was possessed by Voldemort, and my mother’s sacrifice meant that my touch burned him. So when Voldemort forced Professor Quirrell to try to murder me, I chose my life over his. Voldemort’s soul escaped, but my touch killed Quirrell.”

Draco raised his brows. “You know, the more I learn about the past six years, the more I realise that the rumours of your exploits do not do you justice.”

Harry snorted.

“Still, you can’t really believe your soul was _corrupted_. I know you. If you could have saved Quirrell, you would have. The only reason you even survived is because of your mother’s sacrifice. And maybe that changed you – how could it not? – but it didn’t corrupt your soul.”

“And when I kill Voldemort?” Harry asked.

Draco took a breath. The Dark Lord terrified him down to the marrow of his bones, but for Harry’s sake, he thought he could do anything. “If that’s what it takes,” he said, “then that’s what we do. Or we find another way. But we do it together.”

Harry frowned. “Together?”

“We’re bound at the soul,” Draco reminded him. “We do this together, or not at all.”

Harry looked conflicted. “Your mother might have something to say about that.”

“I’m quite sure she will,” Draco agreed. “I’m also sure it won’t make a difference. Do you remember the toy dragon she gave me this morning?” Harry nodded. “Obviously I was not lacking for toys as a child, but that dragon… he was special. My Great-Aunt Talitha gave him to me, as a baby. I took him everywhere with me. He was my security blanket, until my fifth birthday.”

Harry grimaced. “Your father.”

“Yes,” Draco agreed. “He was always strict. But he left me to the tender devices of my mother, the house-elves and my nanny until I turned five. After that, disposing of my security blanket was just the start.”

“He punished you with the Blood Quill,” Harry remembered.

“Just once,” Draco said, dismissively. “But in the years following the end of the war, he dabbled in the very Darkest of Dark magic. All my earliest memories of him… It took a long time, most of my childhood, but my mother brought him back. And she protected me from the worst of his excesses.” Harry’s hands curled into fists, and Draco reassured him, “It’s okay. Elliott protected me from most of what she could not.”

“Elliott?”

Draco smiled slightly. “A guardian angel, of sorts. He was a Welsh Green; beautiful, absolutely enormous – and invisible to everyone but me. I didn’t even know what he was. I had no idea my name meant dragon, then. I just thought it was my mother’s secret name for me. As for my stuffed toy, I called it Crup. Merlin knows how I mistook a majestic dragon for a domesticated, two-tailed little fiend, but apparently no one thought to disabuse me of the notion.”

Harry’s lips twitched.

“Elliott, though… he was my Crup come to life. Somehow he always knew when I needed him. He would cause distractions, or hide me until my father or his friends lost interest. Take me flying, even. In retrospect, I think it must have been my accidental magic, keeping me safe. Making me imagine… I don’t know. But he was real to me. And he made me feel protected, in a way I haven’t felt since he left. At least, not until you.”

Harry’s eyes had softened. “I’m glad you had him.”

Draco shook his head, a little embarrassed. He’d never told anyone about Elliott; not even Pansy. He might have been only five years old when the dragon first appeared, but even then, he’d known having an imaginary friend was not particularly sane. “He wasn’t really there, of course. I know that. But I missed him, when he went away. He told me I didn’t need him anymore; that I would meet someone at Hogwarts who would become more than friend and protector, more than family. I was angry at him for a long time. I didn’t understand how one person could be _more_ than all that.”

He smiled at Harry.

Harry blinked at him. “You think he meant _me_? I thought you said he was your imagination.”

“I said he was my accidental magic,” Draco corrected him. “Not my imagination.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “You really think the Wild Magic is that sentient? That it knows the future, and can talk to us through visions?”

Draco wrinkled his nose. “It sounds ridiculous when you put it like that.”

“Well, yeah,” Harry said, frowning. “But… remember when we first went to Madam Pomfrey about our magic, and she kept trying to get us to stop having sex? And then, the last few days.” He flushed. “Snogging during our Defence exam.”

“You think the Wild Magic is drawing us together,” Draco said. “And using sex to do it.”

“Exactly,” Harry said.

“Maybe it is,” Draco said, slowly. “But I don’t think there’s any sinister intent behind it, if that’s what you’re thinking. Even the most basic of bonds need consummation, and ours was no exception. We tried to deny that need, immediately after the bond settled. It was no wonder we were desperate. As for this recent need for intimacy...” He hesitated. “After what we just went through, it would probably be a normal response, even if there was no bond between us. But… I betrayed you. I denied our bond. I set in motion something that would have eventually destroyed it, if you hadn’t forgiven me.”

Harry shook his head. “You didn’t betray me. You saved my life.”

“But you thought I had,” Draco said. “That’s what would have broken it.”

“And now the bond’s healing itself?”

“Something like that,” Draco agreed.

Harry looked thoughtful. “The snakes on your lintel told me that you’re the Heir of Slytherin, this morning.”

Draco gaped at him. “What? No, I’m not. You said it was Voldemort. He opened the Chamber of Secrets.”

Harry shrugged. “That was just a legend, though, wasn’t it? Not prophecy. Maybe Voldemort just wanted to think he was the Heir. The snakes were pretty serious. They said you were sleeping, but that I’d help you wake up, and when you did –” His brow furrowed. “When you did, Earth and Air would unite, or something, and Slytherin would be untarnished. I think. But what if it was the Wild Magic, speaking through them? How else would they know so much about us?”

“Harry,” Draco said again, and then stopped, feeling helpless and small. “Do you ever feel like this is all just… too much?”

Harry laughed. It sounded scraped raw, and Draco flinched. “Oh, just all the fucking time.”

Draco really looked at him, then. Arms curled around his legs, hugging his knees to his chest, messy black hair falling into pained green eyes. He looked very young, all of a sudden, and Draco realised that Harry had been dealing with this mess of a fucking war even longer than him.

He took Harry’s hands, tugging him out of the tight curl. “I love you,” he said, and Harry’s face crumpled. Draco pulled him into his arms. “I waited six _years_ to find the person Elliott told me about,” he said, roughly. “You’re everything to me. So it doesn’t matter what the prophecy says, or my mother, or the snakes on my lintel, or even the bloody Wild Magic. Understand? We’ll get through this, together.”

Harry was silent for a moment. Then he asked, “Say it again?”

“What, sweetheart?”

“That you love me.”

Draco pressed his lips to Harry’s hair, closing his eyes. “I love you,” he said. “With all my heart and soul.”

Harry didn’t reply, but his shoulders shook, and Draco held him closer. And if he succumbed to a few tears of his own – well, it was his birthday. He had that right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elliott is, of course, from a certain Disney movie that was a childhood favourite of mine :)


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for your comments and kudos! xx

**CHAPTER EIGHTEEN**

**A NEW MOON RISES**

Part Two

The whole school was in an uproar when Harry and Draco arrived back at the castle.

It was an hour after dinner had ended, which meant that even the stragglers should have returned to their dorms. Instead, the Entrance Hall was in chaos, people running and shouting in terror, spells flying. Harry had his wand in his hand instantly, shoving Draco behind him as he took a step across the threshold.

A spell with a distinctive green trail flashed by, almost grazing his arm. He gasped and spun out of the way. Death Eaters were swarming everywhere. Dementors circled above like hungry vultures, flitting in and out of the fray as they spotted a vulnerable target. The only professor Harry could see was Flitwick, and he was cowering in a corner with his arms over his head. Near him, a little blond-haired Slytherin was screaming over Theodore Nott’s body.

Harry scanned the hall frantically. Ginny was backing away from a Death Eater, her hands up, no wand in sight. Hermione was by the stairs, convulsing as a group of five Dementors fed on her. Ron was twisting in agony under a Death Eater’s wand.

Harry’s heart stopped. No, not a Death Eater. _Voldemort_.

A wordless cry welled up in his throat, and he threw himself forward.

“Harry, no!” Draco cried, catching him around the waist. He pulled him back across the threshold, just as a flash of green hit Ron’s chest. Harry screamed. “STOP!” Draco yelled, in his ear. “Harry, stop! _Look_!”

Harry fought him, tears streaming down his face. “Let me GO!” he shouted. All he could see was Ron, cold and still and dead. _Dead_.

“Harry, for fuck’s sake –!”

The Wild Magic responded to his grief, his rage. It flooded into him, rushing through the pathways of magic in his body, dancing on the tips of his fingers as he prepared to release it in a terrible wave.

“ _STOP!_ ” Draco screamed, and Harry found himself cut off, left with only what he had already managed to draw through Draco. It didn’t matter. It was enough. But Draco forced him around, shaking him. “It’s NOT REAL!” he cried. Harry blinked, struggling to focus on him. “It’s a curse! Whatever you’re seeing, _it’s not real!_ ”

“Ron –”

“It’s not real!” Draco repeated. “Look again, Harry. _Look_ , please!”

Harry was shaking, but he forced himself to turn. People were still screaming and running. But – just students. There were no Death Eaters or Dementors in sight. No Voldemort. Ron was pale and still, but Harry could see his chest moving. For a moment, he couldn’t comprehend it. “Oh, Merlin,” he said, and felt his knees buckle. “Oh Merlin, _fuck_.”

Draco caught him, easing his fall. “Look at me, Harry,” he said, urgently. “Look at me. You have to let the magic go, or it’ll hurt you.”

Harry breathed in. “Okay,” he said, and breathed out. He created the most harmless thing he could think of with such an enormous amount of magic; an illusion of a tiny Welsh Green dragon, no bigger than his finger. He put all that magic into the finest details, crafting tiny, sharp claws, a beating heart, forked tongue, ribbed wings, green scales that shone diamond-bright, and a tiny birthmark on its forehead.

“That’s it,” Draco murmured. “That’s beautiful, sweetheart.”

“Please tell me Ron’s okay,” Harry begged, voice cracking.

“They’re all fine,” Draco assured him. “Look. Dumbledore and McGonagall are working on it.” He was pointing to the other side of the hall, where the door stood wide open. Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall stood on the threshold, wands out and chanting. Oddly, no one from the Entrance Hall was attempting to escape through it, as if for some reason it was invisible to them. Behind them peered several students, looking frightened, but not like those in the Entrance Hall. Not frantic with terror.

“What’s going on?” Harry said. “Why aren’t they –?”

“I think it’s localised, set to trap anyone passing into the hall,” Draco said. “It seems to stop at the threshold of every door, and, I think, the base of the Great Staircase. See how Madam Pomfrey’s waiting at the first landing?”

Harry nodded. Tonks and the other two Aurors who had been patrolling Hogwarts were with her. They were pacing, faces agonised, obviously searching for something.

“It must be powerful, to cover such a large area,” Draco said. A crease formed between his brows as he studied the room. “And to have lasted so long, against all of their combined efforts – there must be…” He trailed off. “I can feel them,” he said, eyes closing. He lifted his hands. “They’re hidden, but I think I can – _there_.”

Five stones rose from the shadows in a circle around the edges of the hall. They were carved with runic symbols, emitting a sickly yellow light. Dumbledore and McGonagall responded immediately, waving their wands. The stones exploded in a shower of fire, and Harry flinched back.

Dumbledore lowered his wand, visibly shaking. McGonagall mouthed, “ _It’s done_ ,” and collapsed.

Harry started forward.

Draco caught his elbow. “Wait. It’s not safe yet.”

“They broke the curse,” Harry argued. There were students helping McGonagall to a bench, but inside the hall, there were others who were hurt, unconscious. No one was helping them. “I have to check on Ron. He’s – he’s been knocked out.” He took in Draco’s expression. “That’s real, right? I can see him breathing.”

“It’s real,” Draco confirmed. “But so are the spells everyone in there is shooting in response to whatever they’re seeing. I’m not letting you get caught in the crossfire.”

Harry frowned. Draco was right. They were still fighting. “Why –?”

“You were only exposed for seconds,” Draco explained, “and it still took you a minute to come out of it. Everyone in there is going to need much longer to recover. Weasley’s fine, Harry. I promise.”

“But they’re still shooting. What if –?”

Draco shook his head. “The Aurors are blanketing the hall in some kind of suppressing spell. No one’s using anything more dangerous than a Stunner. See?”

Harry relaxed a little when he realised Draco was right. Still, it wasn’t easy to wait for those still standing to stumble to a stop. It took long, long minutes, but at last, one by one, they began to lower their wands and look around in confusion.

Dumbledore stepped forward. “It’s over,” he said, voice raised enough to draw their attention without startling them. There was no twinkle in his blue eyes, and his hands were tucked into the sleeves of his robes. “You are all safe. What you all saw – what you fought – was nothing more than an illusion created by a curse designed to prey on your darkest fears. It was not real. The curse has been broken, and it’s over.” Several students fell to their knees, relief dawning on their faces. A few of the younger students began to sob. Most just looked shell-shocked. “Is anyone hurt?” Dumbledore asked. “Please raise your hands if you are. Madam Pomfrey will see to you as soon as she can.”

A few hesitant hands went up, and Madam Pomfrey bustled down into the hall.

“Was it You-Know-Who, professor?” Seamus called out. His face was blotchy and tear-stained, and he was gripping Dean’s shoulder with white knuckles.

Pansy was on her knees next to them, her face expressionless. She was staring at right at Draco, and Harry wondered what she’d seen.

Over by the stairs, Hermione was wearing the same look of hollow-eyed horror as Pansy, but she picked up her wand in trembling fingers and cast _Reenervate_ at Ron. Harry breathed a sigh of relief when he jerked upright, gasping.

“I won’t engage in idle speculation, Mr Finnigan,” Dumbledore said. “I can, however, assure you that whoever is responsible for this cowardly attack will be found and brought to justice. But that is not your concern right now. You are all to return to your dormitories and rest. You have been through a terrible ordeal. Prefects, please take a moment to gather yourselves, and then escort the younger students back to your Houses. Unless you need the infirmary, everyone is to return to their dormitories in a calm and timely manner. Stay together. Your Heads of House will arrange for hot cocoa to be sent up to each common room, and then I would like you all to get a good night’s sleep.”

There was a moment’s silence.

Professor Flitwick was the first to push himself up. He made his way unsteadily over to a group of crying Hufflepuffs. Several older students staggered to their feet, following his lead. More appeared from behind Dumbledore, looking relieved; that it was all over, or that they hadn’t been caught up in the curse. Both, probably. Harry imagined it would have been a good day to be a slow eater.

The prefects began herding everyone into groups and up the stairs. Professor Vector was assisting Madam Pomfrey in treating those students who had been injured, while Professors Sprout and Burbage gently revived those who had been Stunned.

Hermione and Ron were clinging to each other, and Harry decided to leave them be. Who knew how long they’d been in the grips of that curse? They needed each other more than they needed him right now.

“Harry,” Draco said, tugging gently on his shoulder. “Are you all right?”

Harry shook his head. “Not really,” he said, choked. “I just saw Ron _die_.”

“I know,” Draco said, and drew him into his arms.

“Fuck,” Harry said, pressing his face to Draco’s shoulder. He felt shaky, on the edge of tears. “ _Fuck_. What the bloody fucking kind of spell was that?”

“It’s called the Nightmare Curse,” Draco said. He threaded his fingers through Harry’s hair, petting him gently. “You knew it was a possibility the Dark Lord could have invaded Hogwarts, but your mind had to work with what it had in front of you. You saw Weasley fall, and the curse gave you the worst possible interpretation for it. The ingenuity and yet limitation of the curse. It must work within the confines of what you know to be the truth.”

“That’s why I didn’t see you in there, because I knew you were behind me,” Harry realised. He shuddered. “I don’t know what I would have done if I’d seen you die, Draco.”

“Considering what you were about to do after seeing _Weasley_ die, I’m not sure I want to know,” Draco said, his tone deliberately light.

Harry pulled back a little to frown at him. “You know I love Ron.”

Draco’s nose wrinkled. “Oh, _ew_ , Potter.”

“Not like that!” Harry protested. He huffed at Draco’s smirk. “Which you know, so stop winding me up, you great prat. I could have destroyed the whole of Hogwarts with that magic.” He sobered. “And you stopped me. Thank you.”

Draco snorted. “You’re an Air Mage, Potter. What were you going to do, blow it down?”

“Maybe?” Harry shrugged. “Isn’t that the problem, that we don’t know what we’re capable of?”

Draco held up his hand. The tiny dragon Harry had created was curled up in his palm, tail wrapped around his thumb, snoring. “Beauty, Harry,” he said, softly. “We’re capable of great beauty.”

Harry smiled despite himself.

Draco smiled back at him, stroking a finger down the dragon’s back. It purred, blowing out a puff of smoke before tucking its head under a wing. “I think he likes me.”

“Clearly he has good taste,” Harry said. He hesitated. “You know it’s not real, though, right? It’s an illusion, like the bed. It will fade.”

“Well, right now he’s as real as the watch you transfigured for me,” Draco said. He glanced over Harry’s shoulder, and frowned. “I don’t suppose you happened to notice where Atwood and her group were during the curse, did you?”

Harry turned. The Slytherins were all gathering at the top of the stairs leading down to the dungeons. The little blond boy Harry had noticed earlier was weeping in Nott’s arms, and Adeline Cardosa was shivering on the outskirts of the group. As Harry watched, Daphne Greengrass put an arm around the little girl, guiding her down the steps.

At the back of the group was a seventh-year with short dark curls. She caught his gaze, and smirked.

“You think she –?”

“No,” Draco said. “At least, not directly. She’s far too intelligent to get her hands dirty like that. Someone else cast the spell and prepared the runes, but she was definitely the instigator. I have no doubt she’s taking her orders from the Dark Lord. If he intends to attack the school before term ends, he has a limited window of opportunity. Of course, Hogwarts’ defences are formidable even without the Headmaster in residence, and since I failed to carry out my task –”

“Do you think he’ll risk it now?” Harry asked, feeling cold. “With Dumbledore still alive?”

“I don’t think it’s a matter of risk anymore,” Draco said. “We defied him. Not only that, we flaunted our defiance in his face. And with so many other Slytherins defecting with us, their parents will be forced to at least think about their continued loyalty to the Dark Lord. If he understands anything at all about purebloods, he will be examining his ranks very carefully right now.”

Harry felt hopeful, suddenly. It had been the goal, right from the start, but somehow hearing Draco say it out loud made it real. “They’d really defect? For their kids?”

“Some of them, perhaps. Many of them, if the Dark Lord’s next attack fails. And he will attack again, Harry. Soon. The Nightmare Curse was just the precursor, to frighten us. He’ll want to capitalise on that.”

Harry shivered. “Can I stay with you tonight? It’s been a long day.”

Draco sighed. “There is nothing I would like better. Unfortunately, it appears we are being summoned.”

Harry glanced over his shoulder. Most of the other students and professors had disappeared, but McGonagall was heading towards them with a determined glint in her eye. He groaned. “This can’t be good.”

~*~

Dumbledore’s office was crammed full of people; professors and Aurors, some others Draco didn’t know. According to Harry, they were almost all members of the shadowy Order of the Phoenix, which was information Draco would have given his left arm for, a few months ago. How times had changed.

He stood with Harry next to Dumbledore’s Pensieve cupboard, squashed in between the enormous Hagrid, tiny Elphias Doge, and Arthur Weasley, who had come with his wife, eldest son and his fiancée. Bill Weasley’s new scars stood out starkly on his pale, freckled face.

Across from them was most of the professors, and a sullen-looking Dawlish, who glared at Harry and Draco. Harry’s best friends were squashed in another corner, behind Kingsley Shacklebolt. Pansy hadn’t been invited, which didn’t particularly surprise Draco. Not _that_ much had changed.

“Surely you don’t think he’ll attack the school again so soon, Albus,” Mrs Weasley was saying. “Not after his first try! He's lost his spy inside the castle, now Snape is gone, and he failed to have you murdered. Hogwarts is still protected. It’s still the safest place in wizarding Britain.”

“I am humbled by your confidence, Molly,” Dumbledore said, gravely. “However, I am afraid we cannot discount another attack, not after this evening’s mass breakout. Nor can we discount the idea that he has other agents within the castle. There is no doubt Lord Voldemort was the architect behind the Nightmare Curse.”

There were several gasps at the Dark Lord’s name, and Harry sighed. Draco took his hand and squeezed it. “Breakout? What breakout?” he asked.

There was a sudden hush. Everyone exchanged glances.

Dumbledore cleared his throat. “The Death Eaters have escaped Azkaban, Mr Malfoy,” he said.

Draco froze. “... My father?”

Dumbledore nodded, and Draco stared at him, feeling strangely numb at the news. How long had he cursed his father for getting himself sent to Azkaban? How long had he wished for him to come home, to protect them from the Dark Lord’s madness?

“Professor Snape, too,” McGonagall said.

Draco blinked, surprised. The Dark Lord did not look kindly on failure, let alone betrayal. Could Snape’s cover really still be intact?

Of course, even if it was, that didn’t mean the Dark Lord wouldn’t still torture him for Draco’s failure.

“Severus Snape is the least of our problems now,” Kingsley Shacklebolt said, impatiently. “The rumours that You-Know-Who has been secretly amassing an army were confirmed this morning by Auror Jenkins, a junior member of our Corp. He narrowly escaped with his life. The rest of his squad were slaughtered. They were investigating a sighting of the Dark Mark, and accidentally stumbled upon an entire encampment of You-Know-Who’s followers. Thousands of them, and not just Death Eaters. Giants, werewolves, Inferi, Dementors… My Aurors were discovered and set upon almost immediately, but Jenkins swears he saw vampires as well. In _wizarding Britain_. There’s been no vampires here for a hundred years, at least. And now, with the majority of You-Know-Who’s inner circle restored –”

“Merlin help us,” Hestia Jones said, her face very pale.

There was a short silence as everyone digested the bad news.

“Where was this encampment?” Dumbledore asked.

“Just outside the Muggle town of Lairg,” Shacklebolt said.

Draco sucked in a sharp breath. Lairg was less than thirty miles from Hogsmeade, as the owl flew. As an Apparition jump, it was nothing. And his father was with them.

“They’re not there now, of course,” Shacklebolt said. “By the time Jenkins got back to us, they were gone. The whole damn army. But their proximity to Hogsmeade and the school is raising red flags.”

“That’s not all, though,” Arthur Weasley said. “The Wizengamot just passed the Muggleborn Registration Act Umbridge has been pushing for. Either You-Know-Who has turned more of them than we thought, or he’s gained enough leverage to pass any law he wants. And with Gregory Biddle in hiding –”

Shacklebolt sighed. “We can’t blame him for that. His daughter was severely traumatised by her captivity. She needs his care, and it is understandable that he would not want to risk her being used against him again.”

“Understandable, yes,” Dumbledore agreed, “but unfortunate. If we assume the Wizengamot is effectively under enemy control, we have to consider the Ministry itself vulnerable. And with the Ministry vulnerable, we cannot rely on aid from that quarter. Hogwarts and the Order will stand alone, when the time comes.”

“Is it true what they’re saying about Robards?” Bill Weasley asked. “That he helped the Death Eaters break out of Azkaban?”

“I’m afraid so,” Shacklebolt said. “Used his security clearance to help them escape. We have him in custody. He gave himself up immediately. Apparently You-Know-Who has been holding his son captive at Malfoy Manor. He only found out two days ago.”

“Oh,” Hermione breathed. “Of course. The prisoner being kept in Mrs Malfoy’s quarters.”

Draco closed his eyes. It made sense. His mother’s quarters were the most secure in the Manor. Sick and injured, without her wand, she had been no threat, and held very little value to the Dark Lord. Whereas a prisoner who could give him leverage against the Head Auror himself… It was no wonder her quarters had been under such close guard, even as she had been relegated to the dungeons.

“This is grave indeed,” Dumbledore said. “Clearly You-Know-Who has been planning this for some time. I don’t think we can doubt any longer that he intends to move against us imminently. Perhaps the only advantage we have is that he appears to have accelerated his timetable in response to recent events. He may yet make a mistake we can exploit.”

“That’s a slim hope, Albus,” Moody grunted.

Draco glanced at the old Auror. Moody had been badly injured in the mission to rescue Remus Lupin from the Manor, and his wand arm was permanently disfigured. It hung by his side, useless.

“Any hope is better than none,” McGonagall said. “Still, perhaps we should consider closing the school, Albus. Exams are all but over. We could average their grades –”

“Many of them have already refused to go,” Professor Vector pointed out.

“We will offer them the choice again,” Dumbledore decided. “Kingsley, I assume the Minister has appointed you Acting Head of the Auror Department?” Shacklebolt nodded. “Good. Can we rely on you to organise an escort for the train back to London?”

“Of course,” Shacklebolt agreed. “I think it would be wise to increase our presence here, as well. You have Aurors Tonks, Davis and Greene already patrolling the halls in shifts. I’d like to leave Proudfoot and Savage here, too, to cover the grounds. Dawlish will lead the investigation into the Nightmare Curse.”

“Thank you,” Dumbledore said. “Minerva, if you would take Proudfoot and Savage to your office and brief them on the wards, please? Septima, I would appreciate it if you would liaise with Dawlish.”

McGonagall and Vector nodded, leading the Aurors out of the room.

“Horace, I’d like you to check in on the injured students, make sure Poppy has everything she needs,” Dumbledore continued. Slughorn, who had been squeezed quietly into a corner of the room, muttered a ‘ _good idea, good idea,_ ’ and hurried out. “Pomona, Filius, if you would check in not only on your Houses, but on the Slytherins and Gryffindors, while Horace and Minerva are otherwise occupied?”

Professors Sprout and Flitwick agreed and left the room. Suddenly it was a lot less crowded.

“So,” Elphias Doge said, grimly. “The war begins in earnest.”

“Thousands,” Mrs Weasley whispered. “We can’t fight _thousands_. Even if the Ministry stood with us –”

“No point hoping for that,” Moody said, brusquely. “Scrimgeour’s drowning. The Wizengamot is lost. The Ministry is shrivelling up from the inside out. Albus is right. They can’t help us. They can’t help themselves, at this point.”

“Indeed,” Dumbledore said, gravely. “I am afraid we are on our own.”

~*~

Harry just wanted to go back to Draco’s room and sleep, safe in his lover’s arms. It would probably be his last opportunity. It felt like the world was crashing down around them. But Dumbledore told them in no uncertain terms that every student must be in their own bed tonight, and he had caught Harry’s eyes very pointedly. The Heads of Houses, he’d said, would be checking in on them at midnight, to make sure each of them was accounted for.

Resigned, Harry offered to walk Draco down to the dungeons, not quite ready to part with him at the base of Dumbledore’s staircase. But the walk down to Slytherin was far too short, and Draco didn’t look at all surprised to be bundled into an alcove before they reached his common room. His face was solemn, but his eyes were warm as he allowed himself to be pressed up against a wall and kissed.

It was desperate, toe-curling sex; Harry fucked him hard and quick, and Draco took it beautifully, as he always did.

“I’ll love you forever,” Harry murmured afterwards, “no matter what.” He was all too aware how inadequate the words were; how useless the promise. But he couldn’t stop himself from making it, because maybe that way, he could imprint it on Draco’s soul, and then maybe everything would be okay.

“You – what?” Draco said. He was panting softly, head tilted back against the wall, hands fisted in Harry’s robes.

Harry chuckled. “I’m flattered. Draco Malfoy, incoherent.”

Draco sighed, shivering as Harry latched onto the mark he’d made on his skin days ago. He had yet to heal it, and Harry was determined to keep it there for as long as Draco let him. “Who could blame me?” he said, wriggling for no other reason Harry could discern than the pleasure of feeling Harry’s cock inside him. “You’re bloody amazing.”

Harry smiled. “Likewise.” He kissed down to Draco’s collar-bone, nipped it gently. “I want you again.”

“Mm,” Draco said, rocking his hips into Harry’s. They were both spent, but that could change very quickly. “We can’t,” he said. “It’s almost midnight.”

“Use the Time-Turner,” Harry suggested.

Draco paused. “You know, I’d forgotten I had that.” He flicked his wrist automatically, but he was naked, and his wand was buried somewhere in his discarded robes. His look of dismay made Harry laugh.

“Use our magic instead,” he said, and Draco made a face. “Come on,” Harry cajoled. “You don’t even need to tap into the Wild Magic. Our magic is powerful enough for a simple spell. You’ve seen me do it. You've felt it. Can you feel me now?”

Draco closed his eyes. “Mostly I feel your cock in my arse.”

Harry laughed. He was hardening again, which was probably making it difficult for Draco to concentrate, but he couldn’t help it. “Focus,” he said. “You know how to reach across the bond. You did it when you created the sanctuary. You just have to – _reach_ , and take. Think of my magic as yours.”

“Fuck me,” Draco said, arching his back. “And maybe I will.” Harry rolled his hips, and Draco gasped. “Potter, please!”

“Stop talking,” Harry said. “You can do it. Non-verbally _and_ wandlessly.” He covered Draco’s mouth with his own, threading his fingers through Draco’s hair to hold him in place. Draco moaned and opened up eagerly, and Harry kissed him, deep and thorough. Draco squirmed against him, equal parts intensely turned on and frustrated, but Harry just smiled into his mouth. _Come on_ , he thought.

_I can’t!_

He could almost hear the words, vibrating across their bond. _Yes, you can_ , he encouraged.

Draco broke their kiss, and Harry could feel him tentatively touching the pathway of magic between their cores.

“It’s okay,” Harry said. “My magic is yours. Use it.”

Draco frowned, but closed his eyes. Harry heard _Revertatur Tenebris_ echo through their bond, the shiver of magic, and then the weight of the Time-Turner settled around Draco’s neck, pressed between their chests. And he felt the Darkness, too; the sick thrill of pleasure that shivered down his back in response to the spell. A thrill he’d felt twice before, but the most recent…

He screamed, and scrambled backwards, still screaming.

~*~

Draco found himself falling before he even registered that there was something wrong. His feet skidded out from under him, and he landed on his arse, a jolt of pain shooting up his spine. He cried out, but it was drowned out by Harry’s screams. He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the pain.

“Harry!” he cried, stumbling forward. Harry was huddled in the opposite corner of the alcove, arms over his head. Draco went to touch his shoulder, but Harry shouted and flinched away. Draco snatched his hand back. “Harry, _please_!” he begged. “What’s wrong? Tell me – I can’t help if you –”

“Please stop,” Harry whimpered. “Please stop –”

A brief image, through the bond, and it hit him like a fist to the solar plexus. Harry was having a _flashback_. To Malfoy Manor. To Draco _torturing_ him.

“Oh, Merlin.” He groped blindly for the wall. “Oh, Salazar have mercy. Harry.”

Harry flinched again at the sound of his voice, curling up even tighter.

Draco turned away, and vomited. His head was throbbing, and his tailbone ached. He wiped his mouth with shaking hands, fumbling for his clothes. The tiny dragon Harry had created wriggled out of his pocket, huffing inquiringly at him. Draco let it settle on his shoulder, nuzzling his neck. It made tears start to his eyes. “I love you, Harry,” he said, crouching in front of him. He was careful to keep his hands in view. “You’re safe. Can you hear me? You’re safe, it’s over.”

Harry stilled. “Draco?” he asked, softly.

“I’m here,” Draco assured him, tears spilling over. “I’m here, Harry. You’re safe.”

“I forgot,” Harry said. He wasn’t looking up. “I forgot that you’re a Dark wizard.”

Draco stared at him, stunned into silence. “I don’t understand,” he said, at last. “What does that –?”

“It felt the same,” Harry mumbled. He was shivering, and Draco ached to put his arms around him. He didn’t dare, though. Not yet. “Retrieving the Time-Turner. It felt the same.”

“The same as _what_?” Draco asked, bewildered.

Harry raised his head at last, his eyes red-rimmed. “When you used the Cruciatus Curse on me.”

Draco jerked back. “Harry,” he gasped. “Harry, I –”

“Don’t,” Harry said, quickly. He reached out, and Draco grasped his hands desperately, clinging to them like a lifeline. Harry gave a little, involuntary tremble at his touch, but he didn’t pull away. “You know I don’t blame you. You did what you had to do.”

“I don’t understand,” Draco said again, helplessly. “Yes, it’s a pocket of Dark magic, but it’s used for safe-keeping, and I retrieved the Time-Turner to spend _time_ with you. I didn’t – I would _never_ intentionally hurt you –”

“I know,” Harry said. “It wasn’t you.”

Draco waited, but he didn’t say anything else. “Then what?” he prompted.

Harry’s hands tightened around Draco’s. “Do you remember when you showed me the Snake Shield, at Justin’s trial?”

Draco nodded silently.

“That was the first time I felt it,” Harry said. “The first time you cast Dark magic after our bond had settled. There was a part of me that – that _thrilled_ at it. I knew it was unnatural, but you were seducing me at the time, so I didn’t think anything of it. But when you used the Cruciatus Curse on me, at the Manor, I felt it again. The _buzz_ it gave me…” He shivered. “It made the pain so much worse. I felt – so ashamed.” Tears tracked down his face. “I must have suppressed the memory. I knew, when I woke up in the infirmary, how much I hated you for what you’d done, but I think I shut the rest away. How – how I was in so much pain, but there was a part of me that _liked_ it. That felt you using it, through the bond, and _enjoyed_ you torturing me.”

Draco turned away, and retched. There was nothing left in his stomach, but he retched again and again, a cold sweat breaking out over his skin.

“I’m sorry,” he heard Harry saying, as if from a great distance. “I’m so _sorry_ , Draco –”

He couldn’t remember taking any pleasure from the pain he was causing Harry. All he could really remember was Harry’s hoarse screams, and trying not to break down and cry in front of the Dark Lord. Everything else was just a horrible, senseless blur. But Harry was a Light wizard. His core would never respond that way at the touch of Dark magic. So it had to be him, didn’t it?

“I didn’t know,” he whispered. “I didn’t know, Harry, please believe me. If I’d even suspected using Dark magic would affect you like this –”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Harry said. “It’s not you.” Draco looked up, intent on arguing. Harry interrupted. “You look like hell.”

Draco would have returned the compliment, but in fact he was relieved to see that Harry was beginning to look a little better, some of the colour returning to his cheeks. “I hurt you,” he said. “I triggered that flashback. That sick thrill came from _me_. Your subconscious is associating any Dark magic I cast, regardless of the spell’s actual intent or outcome, with how you felt when – when I used the Cruciatus Curse on you. How I felt.”

“No,” Harry said.

“Did you feel that thrill when Cardosa used the Cruciatus Curse on you?” Draco demanded. Harry shook his head. “So it _is_ the bond!” Draco said, in furious satisfaction. “It’s me. It’s _my_ magic –”

Harry sighed. “Our souls aren’t alone in the bond, remember?”

Draco just stared at him, the full meaning of Harry’s words dawning all at once. “The _Horcrux_?”

Harry grimaced, but nodded. “It’s like a black hole inside me. I always thought it was Voldemort’s influence, through our connection, but that’s closed most of the time now. The Horcrux is worse, because it’s part of me. It makes me hate, I think, and sometimes when I get angry, it makes my anger worse. Much worse.”

Of course, Draco thought. He’d seen it himself, on numerous occasions. The terrible fury in Harry’s green eyes that reminded him so much of the Dark Lord. “I can’t even begin to imagine what that’s like.”

Harry shrugged. “Mostly it’s terrifying. It usually happens when I’m dreaming, and I see things I never, ever wanted to see. But it does give us an advantage. When I don’t let him make me a fool, anyway.”

A shadow passed over his face, and Draco thought about how the Dark Lord had lured Harry to the Ministry last year, and how the Order had still managed to win, drive the Dark Lord away and lock up half his inner circle. The Order’s single loss had been inconsequential to the Dark Lord, incensed as he had been, although his Aunt Bella had cackled about it for weeks.

“It makes you vulnerable,” he realised.

Harry’s lips twisted. “Snape said the same thing, when he was trying to teach me Occlumency. But it doesn’t really matter. The vulnerability goes both ways, and Voldemort won’t risk it anymore. He’s the lucky one; he can keep the connection closed. I can never really escape. I’ve always got a piece of him inside me. And now it’s defiling our bond, too.”

He looked miserable, and Draco reached out instinctively. Harry folded into his arms at last, burying his face in Draco’s robes, and something that had been stretched taut with anxiety inside Draco relaxed. “It’s my fault,” he said. “The Horcrux is clinging to your soul, and our souls are connected, which means it can feel my magic. Your core is Light, Harry. Of course the Horcrux would revel in even the barest hint of Dark magic, especially after – and I didn’t even _think_ –”

“Stop, Draco,” Harry begged. “Please. It’s not your fault. I just want to go to bed.”

“Of course,” Draco said, quickly. He went to pull out the Time-Turner, but hesitated. “Do you still – I mean, if we’re going to get to our own dorms before McGonagall and Slughorn, we have to go now.”

“No,” Harry said. “Use it. I need you.”

Draco held him tighter, wordless.

~*~

The heat of the summer day had given way to a much cooler evening, and some kind soul had decided to light a fire in the Gryffindor common room. With over half of the students experiencing symptoms of shock, the warmth of the fire was much appreciated. In fact, Ron was finding it difficult to drag himself away from the oddly hypnotic flames. He thought he might be suffering from a little shock, himself.

But it was half-eleven, and even the prefects were turning in now. All except Hermione, who was studiously gathering the empty mugs from their hot cocoas onto five large trays. Less work for the house-elves, Ron surmised, watching her.

Amabel Lee, a seventh-year prefect and the last one to head up, touched his arm as she passed. “Professor McGonagall will be up soon,” she said, glancing at Hermione.

Ron nodded. “Thanks,” he said, and waited until she’d disappeared upstairs. Then he dragged himself up to help Hermione.

She was avoiding his eyes, which was probably not a good sign. He found a couple of mugs she’d missed, half-hidden behind a tapestry in the corner, and Hermione took them with a brisk nod, looking around the room again before busying herself with straightening each mug so they all fit on the trays.

“Harry’s not back yet,” she said.

“He’s fine,” Ron told her. “He’s with Malfoy.” There was a short pause, and then they looked at each other. Just like that, the tension broke. First a giggle, and then laughter, clutching their sides, tears in their eyes; a little hysterical, but laughter nonetheless. “That should _not_ be as reassuring as it is,” Ron groaned.

“Mordred and Morgana, no,” Hermione said. “The whole world’s gone topsy-turvy.”

Ron sighed in agreement. “Tonight was fucking awful,” he offered.

Hermione made a noncommittal noise, but she allowed him to draw her close. She rested her cheek against his chest, and Ron thought, not for the first time, how bloody lucky he was to have found his other half in her. Harry might have a soul-bond with Malfoy, the stuff of myth and legend and every trashy romance his mum could get her hands on, but he had Hermione. Frankly, he was pretty sure who had the better deal.

“I saw Ginny die,” he said, quietly. “And V-Voldemort torturing you. And then… _Nox_.”

Hermione was silent for long time, but Ron had learnt from a very young age that patience was one of the most important skills to cultivate, in chess and in life. He could wait forever, if that was what she needed. “I saw you get hit,” she said, at last. “I saw you fall. I thought you were _dead_ , Ron. And I – I –” She broke off with a small sob, and he hugged her tighter.

“I know, honey.”

“It could still happen,” Hermione said. “That’s what’s so awful. I’ve been so worried about Harry that I forgot to worry about _us_. These past three weeks, I’ve been so happy. Dreaming about the future, planning our place in the wizarding world after – after the war is over. But you heard Kingsley. Voldemort is closing in, and the Ministry can’t help us. We’re on our own.”

“We’re not alone,” Ron said, firmly. “There’s the Order, and the DA alumni. And others will come, once word gets out. We have advance warning now, thanks to Jenkins. But I reckon Mum’s right. Voldemort’s a fool if he attacks with Dumbledore in residence. _Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus_ , remember?”

“Never tickle a sleeping dragon,” Hermione murmured.

“Exactly,” Ron agreed, turning her face up to him. He kissed her tenderly, fiercely. “Hogwarts is defended. Let him come.”


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for your comments and kudos! xx

**CHAPTER NINETEEN**

**THREE’S A PARTY**

_The music has grown numb with death –_  
 _But we will suck their dying breath,_  
 _The whispered name they breathed to chance,_  
 _To swell our music, make it loud_  
 _That we may dance – may dance._  
~ Dame Edith Louisa Sitwell

Part One

Harry and Draco spent their stolen hours in their Room. Harry was exhausted, but he didn’t want to waste what little time they had left. He cuddled close to Draco, dozing lightly as his lover skimmed through the books he’d borrowed out from the library. Harry’s tiny dragon was perched on the top of the bedpost above them, watching over them.

Draco was subdued in a way Harry had only seen once before, when he’d rejected him after Malfoy Manor. It made him feel awful. None of the past year had been Draco’s fault. He’d been blackmailed and manipulated and used, and despite all that, he’d still chosen to do the right thing. He’d suffered _enough_ , damn it.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, when he couldn’t hold it in any longer.

Draco sighed, his breath ruffling Harry’s hair. “It’s not your fault, either, sweetheart.” Harry just turned his head away, and Draco made a tutting noise, catching his chin. “Hey,” he said softly. “ _Hey_. Look at me, Harry.” Harry met his eyes reluctantly, and was surprised to see no judgement there. No disapproval. “I’m not going to berate you for your guilt complex anymore. I love you. And if it’s what you need to hear, then I forgive you.”

Harry felt tears spring to his eyes, and he tried to blink them back. When that didn’t work, he hid his face in Draco’s shoulder. Draco just kissed his hair, picking up his book again.

It was quiet, then; just the crackle of the fire and the rustling of the pages as Draco turned them. Harry wanted to stay like this forever.

“… curses that attach themselves to their victim’s core of magic, draining them like leeches,” Draco said, some time later. Harry startled awake. “Horcruxes are far more powerful than most curses, of course, but it may help us understand better what it’s doing to you, and how we can destroy it. Or even,” he said, thoughtfully, “remove it, and _then_ destroy it.”

Harry closed his eyes, wishing he could tell Draco to just – stop. Stop trying to save him, stop this hopeless fucking quest to get his Horcrux out. But he couldn’t, of course. They’d just end up in another argument, and that was the last thing he wanted right now. “No,” he said, instead. “That’s too risky.”

“The risk would be greater for anyone in the vicinity, yes,” Draco acknowledged. “But it would greatly reduce the risk to you.”

Harry sighed. “Draco –”

“Don’t you dare!” Draco said, sharply. “Don’t you _dare_ say that’s not what’s important!”

“I wasn’t going to,” Harry said. “The Horcrux is intangible, and probably invisible, too. Voldemort doesn't even know he made me into a Horcrux, remember? Which means it could latch onto any object nearby, and we’d never know. It could latch onto one of you. And then defeating Voldemort really would be impossible. I won’t let that happen, Draco.”

“Of course not,” Draco said. “There are ways that we could trap it, and force it into something of our choosing. A runic circle, for example. If we made you uninhabitable somehow, it would have no choice but to go where we wanted.”

Harry considered that. “The Horcrux is powerful Dark magic. Dark _soul_ magic, which Ron said we know almost nothing about. Do you really think a runic circle could hold it? If, of course,” he said, a little doubtfully, “you could even get it out of me.”

“I’m a Dark wizard, Harry,” Draco said, patiently. “And I happen to be _very_ good at Ancient Runes. We’ll find a way. Trust me, I’m not interested in becoming a Horcrux. As for our bond, there are several techniques which we may be able to adapt to allow me safe access to your core, but none I’ve found so far are ideal.”

“What about what Madam Pomfrey did?” Harry asked.

Draco shook his head. “That was for diagnostic purposes only. My purpose, to not only see your core and the parasite attached to it, but to tear it out of you, requires a very different approach. Still, given enough time, I have no doubt we can do it.”

Except that time was no longer a luxury they had, Harry thought, miserably. “We haven’t talked about your father,” he said, changing the subject.

Draco frowned. “Do we need to?”

“He’s out, Draco,” Harry said. “He’s with Voldemort. And you still love him, don’t you?”

Draco jerked one shoulder up. “Of course. He’s my father.”

“Even though he tortured you with the Blood Quill, betrayed your Mage abilities to Voldemort –”

“My relationship with my father has always been complicated, Harry,” Draco interrupted. “I love and fear him. I always have. It’s an honour to be a Malfoy, the scion to a line older than the Founders themselves, and as close to royalty as wizarding Britain has.” He smiled slightly. “Did you know Scorpius de Malfoi, Elizabeth’s great-grandfather, actually married the last princess of the Pendragon line?”

“Pendragon?” Harry echoed. “As in, _Arthur_ Pendragon? Of the Round Table?”

“The very same,” Draco said. “My father has made mistakes, Harry. Some, like putting my mother in the position she was in this year, that I will never, _ever_ forgive him for. But he is still my father.”

Harry nodded. He could understand that. Of course, James Potter might have been a bully in school, but he’d outgrown that. He’d certainly never tortured Muggles or killed people for sport, like Draco’s father. “Do you think he’ll defect?”

Draco was silent for a moment. “I want to say yes,” he said. “I hope so. But I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said.

Draco shook his head. “I made my choice. I couldn’t go back now even if I wanted to. My father will just have to choose between his heir and his master.”

“I hope he does the right thing,” Harry offered.

“So do I,” Draco agreed. He fingered a strand of Harry’s hair, tugging at it gently. “Sure I can’t convince you to run away with me? We could go with my mother to France.” The corner of his mouth curled up, mischief dancing in his eyes. “I could speak French all the time. I noticed how much you liked that.”

Harry felt himself flush. “I didn’t know you could speak French,” he admitted.

“And Italian, Spanish, and German. Not to mention Latin. Like any other pureblood with a classical education.”

Harry laughed. “You are _such_ a snob,” he said, fondly. He kissed away the frown before it could form between Draco’s perfectly arched brows. “And I adore you for it. But that doesn’t mean I can run away with you. Maybe after the war.”

Draco smiled. “Fine. After the war.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. He _wanted_ that, more than anything. But there was no guarantee of after anything, now. Not for him, and certainly not for them. Not after tomorrow. “Waiting for the worst really sucks,” he decided.

“Waiting for the worst gives us time to prepare for it,” Draco corrected him. “Rushing in where angels fear to tread is a fool’s prerogative.”

Harry hid a smile. “And you forbid it, do you?”

“Absolutely,” Draco said, firmly, “and unequivocally. I refuse to let my boyfriend die before we even reach our one week anniversary.”

Harry’s eyebrows rose. “One week?”

“Your courtship doesn’t count,” Draco said. “We might have played at dating then, but that’s all it was. You know that.”

Harry winced. “But what about –?”

“After the Invasion?” Draco mused. “You think we should count from when I told you I returned your feelings? I did consider that, but then that would make the Manor our first fight as a couple, and I’d really rather not remember our first fight as the one where I tortured you half to death at the Dark Lord’s behest.”

Harry couldn’t argue with that. “Fair enough.”

Draco looked sombre. “You forgave me, and still I thought you would never be able to love me again. But then you came to me, and kissed me, and I knew, against all odds, against _everything_ I believed to be true… somehow, you did still love me. That was our beginning, Harry. Our true beginning.”

“All right,” Harry whispered, trying to take comfort in the strength of Draco’s love for him. But his perception of their love was based on an illusion; the truth Harry had chosen to show him, and no more. And when the lie was exposed at last –

Well. Only tomorrow would tell if their ‘true’ beginning would spell their end.

~*~

The day of the sixth years’ inter-house party dawned bright and clear. Sunshine streamed in through every window, not a single cloud breaking the enormous expanse of blue sky. At breakfast, Dumbledore announced that an army belonging to You-Know-Who had been sighted in the area. He had arranged for a special Hogwarts Express to Longon for those students who wanted to go home.

Parents would be informed on a case by case basis; not by owl, but by personal Floo. Dumbledore didn’t give a reason for this, but everyone was well aware that owls could be intercepted, and there were certain students whose parents were no doubt part of the army camped on Hogwarts’ doorstep.

The entire student population was terrified.

Seamus was, too, really. It just didn’t feel real. He’d been bound in place, screaming, helpless, forced to watch as Dean was ripped apart by werewolves, as Pansy was sucked dry by Dementors. And then, when Harry had _finally_ appeared to save them, he’d watched Voldemort kill him. And this time, it had stuck.

But none of that had been real. What _was_ real was Pansy’s hand in his, his heart beating double-time as they walked down to the dungeons together. After weeks of uncertainty and doubt, Pansy had _finally_ agreed to go to the party with him.

He felt as if he might start walking on air at any moment.

Of course, Pansy would probably look at him with that beautiful crinkle between her brows and tell him that of course he could walk on air, if he wanted; there was a spell for that. That was the trouble with having a magical mam and a Muggle dad. He was forever using the wrong expressions with the wrong people. Like when he’d accidentally asked his older and much larger Muggle cousin what had his wand in a knot. Apparently Muggles interpreted ‘wand’ as something very different indeed. His backside had been sore for days.

But whatever Pansy had experienced during the Nightmare Curse, it had shaken her to her core. She’d approached him after breakfast and told him that if his invitation still stood, she would love to be his date to the party.

 _Love_ , Seamus kept thinking. Pansy wasn’t one for flowery declarations. She was a Slytherin, which meant manipulation and deception and dissimulation as a matter of course, but also fierce loyalty and integrity. Her word, given in all sincerity, was everything to her. Seamus just hoped she didn’t come to regret it. He had one evening to prove to her that he was a worthy suitor, that his love for her was true. He was determined it wouldn’t be in vain.

“I’m worried about Professor Flitwick,” she said, now.

Seamus sighed. “Yeah.” Bellatrix had really done a number on the poor fellow. He had unceremoniously stopped their advanced Charms tutoring, and everyone had seen him cowering in a corner like a child, during the Nightmare Curse. “I wish we could help him,” he said, quietly.

Pansy smiled at him. “Yeh have a kind heart, Seamus Finnigan.”

Seamus couldn’t help the grin. “Was that an attempt at an Irish accent?”

“A poor one, obviously,” she said, laughing. “But I mean it. Most people would hold the professor in contempt, after last night.”

“Most people would be wrong,” Seamus said. “He kept Bellatrix busy for who knows how long, during the Invasion. He probably saved all our lives. Even if he never recovers – even if he jumps at shadows for the rest of his life – he’ll always be a hero, and _no one_ has the right to judge him. Just because his scars aren’t visible on the outside, doesn’t mean they’re not real.”

“The Mind Healers are going to be busy with us all for years,” Pansy sighed, in agreement. “Are you taking the train back to London? I know your parents have taken your little brothers and sisters to Ireland. When they hear about this, they’ll want you with them.”

Seamus shook his head. “You’re staying,” he said. It wasn’t a question. “You won’t leave Malfoy, and he won’t leave Harry, and there’s no way Harry will ever leave. So you’re staying. Which means I’m staying.”

He could see the relief in her eyes, but she said, “I don’t know about Draco. Potter has agreed to tell him the truth about our conspiracy.”

Seamus stopped. “What? Really? Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“I went back to the Mirror,” Pansy said.

“Oh,” he said. His heart began to pound. “Why?”

“I had to see,” she said. “There were so many paths. And the – the longer Draco survived, the further down the path the Mirror showed us, the less clear it became. Longer gaps, bigger choices, less context. Flashes of battles to come, but no way to know when, or how, or what little choices led to any of the _horrible_ things we saw.” She swallowed. “I needed to know. Because the war’s barely begun, and Draco is not the only one who has decisions to make in the coming days.”

 _Fear cannot conquer us_ , Seamus thought, _it can only make us stronger._ “What did you See?” he asked.

“Only one path where Potter tells him the truth before he finds out on his own, and Draco forgives him,” Pansy said. “ _Dozens_ where he doesn’t. Seamus, what I saw – if they’re not united when the Dark Lord comes, there’s not a Seeker’s chance in a tempest that _either_ of them will survive this war.”

~*~

Harry stared blindly down at his Transfiguration exam.

Draco’s thigh was pressed up against his, warm and solid. He remembered their detention together in this very room; how they’d written lines for two hours under McGonagall’s watchful gaze. That had been the first time Harry had taken Draco, up against a wall in an alcove.

But last night had been against a wall, too. And since they’d woken that morning with just enough time to dash up to the Great Hall for Dumbledore’s announcement, that hurried, desperate encounter, ending in a horrific flashback to Malfoy Manor, might well have been their last time. He was going to break Draco’s heart, and he’d squandered their last opportunity to make love.

A familiar hand touched his arm, interrupting his self-recriminations, and he almost jumped out of his skin.

 _Concentrate_ , a stern voice said through their bond.

Harry turned his head slightly. Draco’s eyes were on his exam paper, quill scrawling industriously across the parchment, but his mouth was curved up on one side. Harry felt his encouraging nudge through the bond.

 _You know, it’s a pity we didn’t discover this sooner_ , he thought. _You could have given me the answers in all our exams_.

 _Dream on, Potter_ , Draco shot back immediately.

Harry smiled, and bent his head to his own work.

He was able to focus on the exam, knowing that Draco was looking out for him, and he handed in the paper to McGonagall with the knowledge that he’d done his best.

“Mr Potter,” McGonagall said. He froze, suddenly worried she knew about his silent communication with Draco, harmless though it had been. But she just said, “The Headmaster would like to see you in his office.”

“Yes, professor,” Harry said, relieved. He hesitated. “Can I ask – the Nightmare Curse? Do they know who did it?”

Suddenly the room was silent, every student straining forward to hear her answer. “Aurors Kingsley and Dawlish apprehended three seventh-years after breakfast,” she told them. “Robert Fawley, George Yaxley and Julie Wright. For such a powerful spell, their magical signatures were only very clumsily removed from the runic stones. None, of course, possess the Dark Mark, but I am afraid that means very little, now.”

Harry nodded. “What will happen to them?”

“They go to trial tomorrow,” McGonagall said. “Whether or not they will be convicted is another matter. With corruption rife in the Ministry, I’m afraid there is no guarantee we will recieve anything approaching justice. Now, off you go, Mr Potter. Professor Dumbledore is waiting.”

“Thank you, professor,” Harry said.

Loud whispers filled the room, and he walked back down the aisle between the desks, taking advantage of the distraction to whisper in Draco’s ear. “We need to talk,” he said.

Draco looked at him curiously. “All right. I’ll wait for you in Slytherin.”

~*~

Dumbledore had a bowl of peppermint cream toads on his desk, which he offered to Harry when he arrived. Harry declined. He felt queasy enough; the last thing he needed was toads hopping around in his stomach. Dumbledore shrugged, and popped three into his mouth.

Harry took the seat opposite him, studying him with a frown. Dumbledore was well over a hundred years old, but apparently that meant very little for wizards. Even with the white hair and the long beard, Dumbledore had always had a glow of youthful vigour about him. Now, he looked frail and tired, his eyes rheumy, hands trembling as he straightened a sheaf of papers on his desk.

“Are you all right, sir?” Harry asked.

Dumbledore looked up in surprise, as if he’d forgotten Harry was there. “Ah, Harry,” he said. “My dear boy. Your capacity for compassion has always astounded me. I have no doubt it will continue to do so, for as long as I live. Unfortunately, I do not think that will be for much longer.”

Harry’s throat closed. “Sir?”

“The curse, Harry,” Dumbledore said, drawing back his sleeve. The blackened skin had spread up his arm, all the way past his elbow.

Harry stared at it in horror. “Shouldn’t you be in St Mungo’s?”

“I am afraid the Healers could do little for me at this point but ease the pain,” Dumbledore said. “And I cannot in good conscience leave the school unprotected while I live out the remainder of my life in the relative comfort and safety of the Spell Damage palliative care unit.”

Harry lifted his eyes to the Headmaster’s, suddenly understanding. “You want to die in battle.”

Dumbledore nibbled on the toes of a peppermint toad meditatively. “I did not expect to live this long,” he said. “To be entirely truthful, my boy, I didn’t _want_ to live this long. Feeling the curse take my life, inch by inch, is not something I would wish on even our worst enemy. I cannot say I want to die in battle, but I admit I do wish my death to ‘mean something’, as you once so rightly accused me of.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said. He remembered how painful it had been in Malfoy Manor, to face the sudden reality of his death. How desperately he’d wanted to _live_ , or at least to die fighting, instead of strung up and helpless. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

Dumbledore’s eyes sharpened. “You’ve come to a similar realisation yourself.” Harry nodded reluctantly. “And you haven’t found a way to remove your Horcrux?”

“I don’t think so, sir. Not in the time we have left. Unless…?”

“I’m afraid not,” Dumbledore said. “I’ve been looking into soul-bonds, as you asked. But I have had as little success as you, apparently. Still, soul-bonds are very rare, and very powerful. It is possible I was wrong about the prophecy. The ‘power the Dark Lord knows not’ may in fact come from your bond. It is an extraordinarily valuable gift –”

“No,” Harry said.

“Harry?”

“No,” Harry said again. He was abruptly furious. “My parents’ death, my scar, Parseltongue… everything about me is just part of the prophecy! I won’t let you turn what I have with Draco into just another thing about my life that was prophesied before I was born! Draco is different. Draco is _mine_!”

Dumbledore sighed. “Oh, my dear boy. I didn’t mean to upset you. I am not disputing your love for Mr Malfoy; far from it. But you told me yourself that you began pursuing him as a ruse to turn him to our side. I understand that your feelings have changed since then. But this was always about the war.”

“It was _never_ about the war,” Harry retorted. Which wasn’t quite the truth, but he wasn’t in the mood for any more fucking truths today. “We’ve been dancing around each other for years, ever since we met.” He realised he was crying, and scrubbed the tears away angrily. “This war, Voldemort, the stupid rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin, _your_ machinations – it all just got in the way. We fell in love _despite_ all that, not because of it. We’re meant to be together, and it has nothing to do with Voldemort or the prophecy. Our destiny is _bigger_ than this war. Bigger than all of this!”

Dumbledore shook his head sadly. “Even if that were so, Harry, you are the Chosen One in this war. Your relationship with Mr Malfoy has made him a target. He will never be safe now while Voldemort remains alive. Have you considered that perhaps, if you truly love him, the best thing you can do for him is to die, so that Voldemort can be defeated?”

Harry flinched back. He stared at Dumbledore blindly.

It was horrible, but it also made sense. Perhaps it had been foolish, believing that his fate could be one of his own choosing. His role had been thrust upon him the moment he entered the wizarding world, and he was bound in chains of loyalty, and morality, and a prophecy made before he was even born.

Perhaps he had always been meant to end up here, with Dumbledore guiding him to his death.

“I’m sorry, my boy,” Dumbledore said, gently. “I know that what you have learned about my true motivations in the past few days has shocked and saddened you, but you must believe me when I say that my love for you is real, and has only grown stronger over the years. I wish there was another way.”

Harry nodded, but he didn’t return the sentiment. He couldn’t. Not anymore.

“What about the other Horcruxes?” he asked. “The one in the cave you mentioned?”

“Ah,” Dumbledore said, looking regretful. “I am afraid I am far too weak now, to make that trip. And there is yourself, and Nagini, as well as two others we know nothing about. It will not be easy to find and destroy them. Impossible in the time we have left.”

“Then what do we do?”

“We fight,” Dumbledore said. “There is little hope of defeating him in the coming battle, but we can drive him back. And then it will be up to you or your friends to find the Horcruxes.”

Harry nodded, swallowing. “Will I know, sir? When the time is right?”

“I believe you will,” Dumbledore said. “You may dislike the prophecy, but there is no question that it provides us with remarkable hope. That there _is_ a way for Voldemort to be vanquished, and that you will be instrumental in his death. I have the utmost confidence in you, and in your friends, who will no doubt take up the baton where you leave off. Whether that is tomorrow, leaving all the Horcruxes and Voldemort himself to kill, or a year from now, with all the Horcruxes destroyed and only Voldemort left… you will know, when the time comes.”

Harry didn’t know whether to be comforted by that or not.

“I have something to give you,” Dumbledore continued, opening a drawer. He pulled out a small object, making a movement that would once have sent it floating over the desk. Nothing happened. The lines around Dumbledore’s mouth deepened, and he looked down at his dead, blackened hand, lying limp and useless on the desk.

“Sir?”

“The curse is slowly sapping my strength,” he explained. “It takes more and more effort to perform magic that once came easily to me. Even the most simple wandless magic is now beyond my capabilities.”

“I’m sorry.”

“There is nothing to be sorry for, my boy.” He held out the object instead. It was a small, cloth-wrapped bundle, and Harry took it, opening the cloth curiously. Inside lay a familiar black stone, with a jagged crack running down the centre.

He looked up in confusion. “This is from Marvolo’s ring, right?”

“Indeed,” Dumbledore said. “It’s called the Resurrection Stone. One of three items known collectively as the Deathly Hallows. Used together, they are said to make one Master of Death.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. “Is that even possible?”

“Ah, the question that has divided scholars for centuries,” Dumbledore smiled. He held up his wand, drawing a golden line vertically in the air between them. “The Elder wand. My wand, as it happens, taken from Grindlewald long ago.” He drew a circle around the bottom half of the line. “The Resurrection Stone.” A triangle, around the whole thing. “And your Invisibility Cloak.”

“My Cloak?” Harry echoed, staring at the symbol. It was the same as the one on the stone in his hand.

“Passed down through your family for generations,” Dumbledore agreed. “The legend of the Deathly Hallows is attributed to three brothers of the Peverell family, who are thought to be ancestors of yours. Their purpose, as the tale goes, was to outwit death. To that end, the eldest created a wand powerful enough to defeat any foe. Unfortunately, he boasted to the wrong people, and was murdered for it in the night. The second created the Stone to bring back a lost love, but it was an echo of her, only. He went mad with grief and committed suicide to be with her. The youngest, however, was smarter than his brothers. He created an Invisibility Cloak, and lived a long and happy life out of Death’s sight. At the end of his life, he took off the Cloak, and greeted Death as an old friend.”

Harry frowned. “You’re talking like death is a – a person or something.”

Dumbledore smiled slightly. “Perhaps he is. The children’s story says the Hallows were actually created by Death, angry that the brothers had cheated him by building a bridge over a dangerous river. But who made these three powerful artefacts is, in the end, irrelevant. The moral of the story is that death comes for us all, eventually. It is not something to be feared; merely the next great adventure.”

“Voldemort fears it,” Harry pointed out. He frowned.“Does he know about the Hallows? He had the stone –”

“Ironic, isn’t it? But no, I don’t believe he did, when he made it his Horcrux. However, in his quest to discover a wand capable of defeating yours… yes, I believe he knows about them now.”

“That’s why he took Ollivander,” Harry realised. “Professor, he has my Cloak.”

Dumbledore paused. “That is unfortunate. It is possible he will take the Elder wand from me, too. It will not stay long with a weak, sick old man. I had once hoped to die with it in my possession, thus breaking its power, but I suspect now it has a greater role to play in the war to come.”

Harry stared at him. The idea of Voldemort with a wand powerful enough to defeat any foe was terrifying. “You could give it to me,” he said. “I could use it to –”

“No,” Dumbledore said, firmly. He saw the confusion and hurt on Harry’s face, and said gently, “I once made the mistake of chasing the Hallows, Harry. They were my Horcruxes, so to speak. I didn’t understand then, and nor will Voldemort. The true Master of Death is not one who seeks immortality, but who accepts their own mortality.”

Harry frowned. “Greeting Death as an old friend?”

“Exactly,” Dumbledore said. “Fear of death has ever been Voldemort’s weakness. It is not yours. The Resurrection Stone is a dangerous conceit, much like the Mirror of Erised, but I want you to take it with you, when you go to face him for the final time. I believe it may bring you some measure of comfort.”

Harry felt his chest tighten. He couldn’t speak; just nodded.

Dumbledore sighed. “You have always carried a heavy burden, my boy. And yet you have taken up this task with all the courage and determination I saw in you from the very beginning. You are a remarkable young man. I am very proud of you. I know your parents would be, too.”

Harry’s hand closed around the stone, the sharp edges digging into his palm. He’d given up on defeating Voldemort, on his relationship with Draco, on his own life. Would they really be proud of him for letting Voldemort murder him? “Thank you, sir,” he said, choked. “Can I go, now?”

“Of course, my dear boy,” Dumbledore said. Harry started to rise. “Oh, and please do thank Mr Malfoy for me. Any longer, and there could have very serious long-term consequences for the children caught up in the Nightmare Curse. His help was invaluable.”

Harry stilled. “Sir?”

Dumbledore looked disappointed. “Harry,” he said. “Elemental magic, wielded with such power and precision… of course I know it was Mr Malfoy who uncovered the rune-stones. But I don’t intend to use that information to his – or your – detriment. I wish you would believe that.”

“I think it might be too late for that, sir,” Harry said. Dumbledore didn’t quite flinch, but his sorrowful expression deepened. “You can make it up to me, though,” Harry offered. “I want Draco safe, after I’m gone. I made him a promise. I know you don’t intend to survive the war either, but you could make arrangements for him. The Order will respect your wishes, even after you’re gone.”

Dumbledore nodded. “Of course. I give you my word, Harry. It is the very least I can do. Draco Malfoy will be safe and provided for after you’re gone, for the rest of his days.”

Harry blew out a long, slow breath. He felt unexpectedly free, as if Dumbledore’s assurance that Draco would be all right had been all he needed to truly accept what he had to do. “Thank you,” he said.

~*~

His presence in Slytherin went largely unnoticed by the other students. Apparently even the Boy Who Lived couldn’t compete with the terrible events of the past twelve hours. He dragged Draco to his room, sick to his stomach but determined to finish what he’d started, six weeks ago.

“I went to see Mother,” Draco said, beaming, as soon as the door was closed behind them. “She got the book, Harry. She did it!”

Harry smiled despite himself. “You didn’t believe she could?”

Draco dropped into the armchair near his dresser, Harry’s dragon nestled just above his right ear. “Of course I did,” he said, reaching up to stroke a finger down the dragon’s back. It made a contented purring noise. “Locating and removing a single book from the Manor’s vast library, currently under the control of the most powerful Dark Lord in modern history… how hard could that be?”

“Listen, Draco –”

“Ah, ah!” Draco said, holding up a finger. “This is important. Don’t you want to know what I’ve found?”

He summoned a fragile-looking book from his desk, and began to flick through the pages. They looked impossibly thin, but they didn’t tear. Some kind of preservation magic, maybe, Harry thought.

“Draco –”

“Air Magic,” Draco read. “The most peaceful of the elements, but also one of the most destructive. It is the element most closely connected to the spiritual, allowing insight into the very essence of a person, and making visible that which is unseen; auras, or wards… May use this gift of perception to promote healing, create and move through wards, confuse or trick the eye – illusion, I think that means – or to draw on and manipulate another Mage’s magic.” He looked up at Harry. “That explains how you draw magic through and from me.”

“What about sending people back through time?” Harry asked, interested. “How does that fit?”

Draco hummed. “I’m not sure,” he said, skimming down the page. “Perhaps Jeremiah didn’t know about that particular gift. There’s a lot about manipulating storms. Facilitating the return of living things to their ‘natural state’… I think that must be how you were able to remove my scars from Finch-Fletchley’s attack, even though they were beyond any Healer’s ability to remove. Not to mention my potions addiction.”

Harry perched on the side of his chair. “What about you? Earth Magic?”

Draco turned to another chapter. “Associated with strength, constancy and resilience. Unique out of the four elements for its symbiosis between life and death. Provides an affinity with living things, magical or otherwise; plant, animal and human. Communication… growing and healing… manipulation of the earth and stone… Hm. Allows the Mage to halt movement, or even –” his eyes widened, “even halt _time_.”

Harry jostled him with his shoulder. “Just because the Wild Magic gives you a gift, doesn’t mean you have to use it.”

“Touché,” Draco snorted. “All right. Seeing and manipulating thoughts and emotions... like the sanctuary I created in your mind, I suppose. Changing a person’s physical constitution, granting them unnatural strength, unnatural mass, or –” he hesitated again, “or enabling them to survive otherwise fatal wounds, temporarily forestalling Death himself.”

Harry absorbed that. “Huh.”

Draco stared down at the page for a moment. Then Harry’s dragon huffed smoke, taking flight. It flapped its wings deliberately in Draco’s face before settling in his lap, blowing out an irritated stream of fire. Draco jumped, looking down at it.

“I think it’s trying to tell you not to worry,” Harry said.

Draco tickled the dragon under its chin. “I’m sure it is,” he said, glancing up at Harry. The affection in his tone made Harry flush. “But it’s right. You’re right. Jeremiah never actually met any White Mages. He had to extrapolate from historical anecdotes, hearsay and rumours. Most of his book is probably rubbish.”

Harry relaxed. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” Draco said, firmly. He went to close the book, and his eyes caught on something. His expression lightened. “Except this. It says Earth Mages have the ability to ground lightning.” Harry snorted, and Draco laughed. “Do you think he imagined what we could do with that?”

“I hope to Merlin and all the Founders not,” Harry joked, wriggling his fingers and letting lightning spark between them.

“Don’t get any ideas, now,” Draco warned, a small smirk playing on his lips. “We have to figure out how to use our bond to –”

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry said, cutting him off. He didn’t want to hear about his bloody Horcrux anymore. “But we’ve only had these abilities a few weeks.” He rose, swivelling to straddle Draco on the armchair. “I think a little practice is called for, don’t you?”

Draco tried to scramble up, looking alarmed, but Harry pinned him in place. The dragon, disturbed from its nest on his lap, flew off with an irritated huff to sulk on the dresser. “Don’t you dare, Potter!”

Harry made himself comfortable. “You know, I think I’m catching on,” he mused, hands drifting down Draco’s chest. “You call me Potter when you _want_ me to force you to submit.”

Draco glared at him. “And you’re only just now – no, Harry, no, what I _want_ is to discuss the Horcrux –” He broke off, hands coming up to clutch at Harry’s shoulders. “Harry!” he protested. “This is important. Jeremiah’s research seems to –” his breath hitched as Harry nosed behind his ear, “to i-indicate that the bond between White Mages is as unique to e-each – _Potter_ –” he moaned, arching up as Harry rubbed gently at the base of his cock with the heel of his hand, “oh Merlin, each elemental – p-pair as the destiny they are born for – Potter!”

“Mm,” Harry said, kissing up the line of Draco’s jaw. “That was very good,” he praised. “Want to try another?”

Draco made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a growl. “No _._ Just – k-keep –”

“You like this,” Harry murmured, lips brushing the curve of Draco’s ear. He breathed out gently, making Draco shiver. “You like my weight on you, my hand on your cock. I’m going to make you come, just like this, and then I’m going to lay you out on your bed and _worship_ you, until you’re crying and begging me to take you, to love you –”

“Yes,” Draco said, pupils drowning out the soft grey of his eyes.

Harry leaned down to kiss him, but a pounding at the door startled them both. Harry almost lost his balance.

Draco put a steadying hand on his arm. “Who is it?” he called.

A small, high-pitched voice came through the door, garbled with panic. It took a moment for Harry to place it, and when he did, he slid off his boyfriend silently. Time seemed to slow down. Draco crossed the room to the door, and a sense of dread filled Harry’s heart.

Was this it? Had he missed his chance?

Draco opened the door, and Adeline Cardosa almost fell into his arms, her face terrified, tear-streaked. Harry started forward instinctively, but Draco was already setting her back on her feet. “Pull yourself together, Cardosa,” he said, not unkindly.

Adeline took a deep breath, obviously trying for some sort of composure. “It’s Atwood’s loyalists,” she said, and then she was babbling again. “You have to come! They just started _attacking_ people! I was in the library, but it’s worse here. Everyone’s – I think it happened all at the same time! There’s so many – but Hermione, she saved my life, and Bulstrode, she won’t move, and I think,” she sobbed, losing it entirely, “I think they’re both dead!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Acknowledgement to the awesome community world-building project, the Santharian Dream, which inspired my elemental magic abilities :)


	39. Chapter 39

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for your comments and kudos!! This may or may not be the one you've all been waiting for ;)

**CHAPTER NINETEEN**

**THREE'S A PARTY**

Part Two

The infirmary was flooded with students, most injured and crying, some screaming. The worst were silent and frighteningly still. The two Healers who had assisted Madam Pomfrey after the Invasion were back, triaging the wounded, and sending the category ones off to St Mungo’s emergency department.

Harry helped where he could, casting _Ferula_ – the only healing spell he knew – where indicated, and holding the hands of the students he couldn’t help. He kept glancing over at the Floo, wishing he could join the steady stream of students to St Mungo’s.

Hermione had been one of the first to go, in some kind of coma that was sucking the magic from her core quicker than the Healers could siphon it back in. Ron had gone with her, his freckled face paler than Harry had ever seen it. Harry had intended to follow, but then Dumbledore had rested a hand on his shoulder, and Harry knew he couldn’t leave.

First the Nightmare Curse, to terrify and divide them, and now this horrific spree through the castle…

Eleven Slytherins had attacked simultaneously in the Slytherin dorms, the Great Hall, and the library, while three Ravenclaws had taken their House-mates by surprise in the Ravenclaw dorms. Hermione had been in the library. She’d taken down two of the marauding students before throwing herself in front of a curse meant for Adeline, just seconds before Tonks and Proudfoot had rushed in.

The loyalists had been subdued and taken into custody, but there were already two confirmed deaths; both Slytherins. Fifteen students were already at St Mungo’s, not to mention the dozens more needing treatment for lesser injuries or shock.

If Voldemort meant to demoralise them before he set his army upon Hogwarts, it was a painfully effective strategy. Looking around at all the frightened faces around him, Harry felt guilt rising like bile, burning the back of his throat. He was the only one who could stop Voldemort, and so far, he was miserably failing.

One way or another, he had to end this.

It was hours before the infirmary was finally under control, and Harry was exhausted. He was slowly tidying up used potions bottles at the other end of the infirmary while Madam Pomfrey treated the last Ravenclaw for shock with chocolate and a Cheering potion.

It was then that the Floo flared again. The two Healers had departed for St Mungo’s fifteen minutes ago, so it was with some confusion that Madam Pomfrey allowed the connection. Harry didn’t even look up. And then Madam Pomfrey was snapping out instructions in a loud, harried tone, and Harry was moving instinctively to obey before he even registered what was going on.

The category one students were returning from St Mungo’s. Unhealed.

There was no time to panic. He was too busy conjuring extra beds, moving the category twos (less seriously injured, but still requiring overnight supervision) furthest from Madam Pomfrey’s office, and directing the St Mungo’s orderlies to beds for the returning students.

Fortunately, the emergency Healers had at least stablised everyone they were sending back, but Hermione still needed a powerful, complicated restoration spell cast on her every twenty minutes, and that was just a temporary measure. They were no closer to actually reversing the curse that was slowly killing her.

“The Healers said the restoration spell is only ninety percent effective,” Ron said, when Harry had a moment to stop by her bed. “The curse is still siphoning away her magic, bit by bit. They said if they can’t find the counter-curse, it might be just _days_ before –” He broke off, his face red and blotchy from the tears. “You know I’d love her even if she was a Squib, right, Harry?”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “Of course you would. And she knows it, too.”

“But that’s their _best_ prognosis,” Ron said. “They said if her body can’t handle the strain of losing her magic, she’ll _die_.” He covered his mouth with his hands, rocking slightly. “Oh Merlin, oh Merlin. She can’t die! What am I supposed to do without her? She’s my guiding light. My conscience. My _heart_. We’re supposed to grow old together. She can’t leave me now!”

Harry gripped his shoulder. “She won’t,” he said. “She’s a fighter, and you’re too bloody stubborn to let her go.”

Ron made a noise that might have been a laugh or a sob, covering Harry’s hand with his own. “Bloody right.”

“Why is she here, Ron?” Harry asked. “Why did St Mungo’s just throw them all out? Where are the Healers? Why haven’t they come back to help?”“Didn’t you hear?” Ginny said. She was across the room from them, carefully tracing her wand in a series of loops over a pale-faced girl with auburn curls. She looked as exhausted as Harry felt, but she barely looked up, her eyebrows drawn together in grim determination. Harry thought he recognised the girl; a Gryffindor in Ginny’s year. Alexia something. “St Mungo’s has declared a state of emergency. There’s been attacks, all over the country, all at the same time. Hogsmeade, Diagon Alley, the Millenium Bridge... St Mungo’s can’t cope with all the wounded. They’re asking anyone with space and any kind of medi-wizardry training to take those stable enough for transport through the Floo network.”

“Fuck,” Harry said. “This can’t be safe.”

The professors and prefects had all been summoned back to the infirmary, and Madam Pomfrey was placing every student who had returned from St Mungo’s under one-to-one care. Narcissa Malfoy had volunteered her aid, though she was still visibly frail. Even Hagrid was helping out, his large frame hunched over a little first year’s body, pink umbrella in full view. No one was taking any notice.

“You should see St Mungo’s,” Ron said, grimly. “There were so many. More pouring in every minute. It’s like the Death Eaters weren’t even aiming to kill, just hurt. People – people are dying, but it’s almost as if death is –”

“Incidental,” Ginny said. “I thought so, too. The Death Eaters were in and out in less than five minutes, too quick for the Aurors to respond. Which means the spells they chose were deliberate. They wanted the largest possible number of casualties. All over the country, there are hundreds of wounded, and hundreds more trying to keep them alive. Probably thousands of worried family and friends. If You-Know-Who attacked Hogwarts now –”

Harry felt sick. They weren’t in any state to put up a fight, especially without the hope of reinforcements. “This is what he wants,” he said. “He wants us distracted, isolated. Afraid.”

“He’s coming for us,” Ron agreed. “Maybe not tonight, but soon.”

~*~

It wasn’t long before the parents started to arrive. Madam Pomfrey begged the help of a single, junior Healer from St Mungo’s, and together with Professor McGonagall and Proudfoot, who was trained in field medi-wizardry, they put together a care plan to minimise the number of people in the infirmary at any one time. Then she sent everyone else off to dinner.

Ron picked at his food listlessly. He didn’t even look up when Pansy sat down opposite them.

Harry stared at her, remembering his promise. “I haven’t told him yet,” he said. “I’m –”

“Don’t,” Pansy said. “Don’t apologise. You couldn’t have foreseen this. And I’m grateful you didn’t spoil his birthday. You were right. That would have been – but you need to tell him tonight. The longer you wait –”

Harry nodded. “I feel it, too,” he said. “Tonight. I promise.”

“Thank you,” she said.

“Is he all right?” Harry asked. He hadn’t seen Draco for hours. The attack in the Slytherin common room had been nothing short of devastating. Harry had been brought up short by the sight, even desperate as he had been to get to Hermione. Draco had stayed behind to do what he could.

Pansy sighed. “I think so. He’s been marvellous, of course. Getting the injured to the infirmary, organising the prefects, calming everyone down. And he made sure the Aurors took care of the bodies with respect to our traditions.” Her eyes hardened. “Muggleborns. They tried to _cover their faces_.”

“Oh,” Harry said awkwardly, wondering why that was so wrong.

“It’s an old tradition, Harry,” Ron explained, pushing his plate away. “Polyjuice, illusions, transfigurations – they all fade away after death. But it can take hours, sometimes days, before we know for sure. Until identity has been confirmed by two different Healers, we never, _ever_ cover their faces.”

“Oh,” Harry said again, oddly comforted by that. He turned back to Pansy. “Where is he now?”

“Still dealing with the aftermath,” she said. “The Ravenclaws were not the only ones who surprised us today. Four of the Slytherins who attacked us today had pledged their allegiance to you.” Harry nodded, not particularly surprised by that. Spies and double-agents were the bread-and-butter of war. “But that’s not what I wanted to discuss with you. I wanted to offer my condolences for Hermione, and ask that the party tonight go ahead, in her honour.”

The fork Ron had been toying with clattered to the table. “What? She’s not _dead_!”

Pansy’s eyes widened. “Of course not,” she said. “I didn’t mean to imply she was, simply to express how sorry I am that she was hurt. She’s my friend, too, Weasley. We all know how important this party is to her. It’s a symbol of the future; reconciliation between Slytherin and Gryffindor, peace, cooperation and harmony between all the Houses. I really think she would want it to go ahead.”

Harry glanced at Ron. “She’d be disappointed if we cancelled it just because she can’t be there.”

“Harry,” Ron protested. “We can’t just – we could be attacked again any minute! Hermione is in the infirmary! You can’t seriously want to have a party?”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “It’s not exactly what I was planning to do tonight. But Madam Pomfrey won’t let us spend the night with her, and we’d only be up all night worrying. Maybe this way, it’ll feel like we’re doing something for her.”

Ron stared at him. “I’m not in the mood for a party, Harry.”

“I don’t think anyone is,” Harry said. He shrugged. “Maybe that’s exactly why we have to have it. A giant _fuck you_ to Voldemort.”

Ron snorted a laugh, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Yeah, okay, if you put it that way. Fine. Need help setting up, Parkinson?”

“I’d appreciate it,” she said. “Hermione put a great deal of work into planning, but we only have an hour to pull it all together. I could use a couple of extra pairs of hands to do it justice.”

“And while we’re hanging _bunting_ , Voldemort’s army could arrive at the gate at any moment,” Ron said. He caught Harry’s eyes, and grimaced apologetically. “Sorry, mate. I’m just –”

“Worried about Hermione, I know,” Harry said. “Believe me, I hate the waiting as much as you do. At least all of Atwood’s crew have been flushed out now, right? No more spies inside Hogwarts.”

“All except Sadie herself,” Pansy said. “She didn’t take part in the attack.”

Harry stared at her.

“She’s got another task, then,” Ron surmised.

Harry nodded slowly. It made sense. “We need to keep an eye on her. She’s dangerous. Dumbledore said we don’t have a chance of actually killing him, this time. Not with five Horcruxes still to go. We can’t afford any surprises.”

“All those meetings with Dumbledore this year, though,” Ron said. “He’s training you. Teaching you. Right? So you know what to do when he comes?”

Harry felt his stomach revolt. Was that really what Ron thought? That Dumbledore had given him some kind of – of secret _weapon?_ That he’d been training him, all this time, even though Harry had told them everything Dumbledore had told him, ad verbatim, about Voldemort’s childhood, the Horcruxes… Harry’s Horcrux?

“You know everything I do, Ron,” he said. “You know the prophecy. If I don’t make it, at least my Horcrux will be dead, too. After they’re all destroyed, it doesn’t matter who ends it.”

Ron frowned. “I think it does,” he said. “You’re the Chosen One. You’re not going to die, Harry. The prophecy says you have the power to kill him.”

“The prophecy says I have the power to defeat him,” Harry corrected him. “Maybe that’s only ensuring my Horcrux dies. But I will try, I promise. I know what the wizarding world expects of me. Just… nothing ever really goes to plan with us, does it?”

“That doesn’t mean we don’t plan,” Ron said. “We’re going to get that Horcrux out of you, mate, remember?”

“How?” Harry asked. “Hermione’s unconscious in the infirmary, and Draco will never help me once I tell him the truth.”

Pansy shook her head. “You don’t know that. He loves you, Potter. It may take time for him to come to terms with it, but he will. And he won’t let you die. He can be petty sometimes, and he holds grudges, but his love for you –”

 _Burns_ , Harry thought. Brighter than a thousand suns. And that was why the truth would destroy them, like a star imploding, collapsing in on itself into a black hole. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “Voldemort’s on his way. Anything we tried now to remove my Horcrux would be rushed and dangerous. I won’t risk your lives without a foolproof plan. Draco doesn’t have to know.”

Pansy looked unconvinced. “What about your bond?”

“Bonds can break,” Harry said. “Draco said ours is still healing from what happened at the Manor. I don’t think it will survive this. But that’s a good thing, isn’t it? It means he’ll be free to be happy, once I’m gone. That’s all I care about.”

“ _Harry_ ,” Ron whispered, gripping his forearm.

“I don’t know,” Pansy said. “I think you underestimate his love for you. Just talk to him.”

Harry nodded, swallowing.

~*~

Ginny conjured a full-length mirror around the corner from the Room of Requirement, inspecting herself critically. She tugged at her dress, straightening it a little. It wasn’t traditional pureblood wear, but then, Blaise wasn’t a traditional pureblood, and Alexia said the green brought out her eyes.

Poor Lexie. They’d been in the Great Hall when the loyalists attacked. The spells had come so suddenly that almost no one had been able to react in time. Most of them hadn’t even managed to pull out their wands before it was all over. Lexie had been hit with a Vomiting Curse. She’d vomited up everything in her stomach in seconds, and then she was just retching, her body convulsing, face pasty-white. Madam Pomfrey had classified her category one immediately. The Vomiting Curse was only meant to last as long as there were stomach contents to be vomited out. Whatever this variation was would make her keep trying to vomit until she died of exhaustion or starvation. It was horrible.

Alexia had been looking forward to her date with Terry Boot for ages. And now she was under stasis spells in the infirmary, and Terry was a heap of blood-soaked robes at St Mungo’s. He was one of the few category ones who hadn’t been sent back with the others.

“Ginny,” Lavender said, stopping behind her. “You look nice. Are you coming to our party?”

“Blaise invited me,” Ginny agreed. “All right, Lav?”

Lavender just shrugged. They’d both been caught up in the Nightmare Curse, and Lavender had been in the library with Parvarti when the loyalists attacked. Parvarti was still in the infirmary, staying the night for observation after suffering a Strangulation Curse. “Is anyone, really?”

“Yeah,” Ginny sighed. “Great night for a party.”

“Well,” Lavender said bracingly, linking her arm through Ginny’s, “exams are over. That’s something, right?”

Ginny laughed. It seemed so ridiculous, now, all her worry over the OWLs. “That’s something,” she agreed.

They got separated by a boisterous group of Hufflepuffs, and Ginny wandered into the Room of Requirement alone.

They’d really gone all out. The Room was long and wide, with a large, carpeted area at one end boasting a cosy fireplace and comfy sofas, and the rest of the space taken up by a dancing floor, bracketed by two enormous food tables. The decorations were a surprisingly tasteful blend of all the House colours – silver, black, gold and blue – and along one wall were large tapestries of the lion, serpent, eagle and badger.

There were mugs of butterbeer and Ogden’s Old Firewhiskey, large bottles of a delicious vintage of Elderflower wine, and a veritable feast of homemade sweets. Cakes and pies and biscuits, jellies, treacle tarts, apple and cinnamon pastries, chocolate mousse, chocolate strawberries, coconut ices, caramel fudges, chocolate brownies, creamy nougat and toffee pudding covered every inch of the tables.

Ginny nibbled on a frosted biscuit as the room slowly filled. She’d half-expected no one to turn up, but apparently people wanted this; somewhere to release some of the awful fear and tension that had taken hold in the past two days. And if the laughter and gaiety sounded a little forced, at least everyone was determined to have a good time, You-Know-Who be damned.

She almost wished she’d thought to do this for her own classmates. But the seventh-years were having their own party tonight, and two illicit gatherings were probably more than enough for the professors to turn a blind eye to.

She poured two glasses of wine, and went in search of Blaise.

She ran into Harry first. He looked tired, a sadness in his eyes that Ginny couldn’t help but respond to. She handed him one of the glasses, and he took it with a startled glance up at her through his fringe. “All right?” she asked. “I hear you helped Parkinson with the decorations. It all looks fantastic.”

He smiled briefly. “Hermione deserves the credit, really. She and Pansy organised everything.” He looked across the room to the fireplace, and Ginny followed his gaze. Ron was sitting by the fire, gazing intently into a small mirror.

“What’s he looking at?”

Harry traced the rim of his glass with a finger. “Probably shouldn’t have done it,” he muttered. “But he’s lost without her. I tried to – but he doesn’t understand.”

Ginny frowned, a sense of foreboding filling her. “Understand what?”

“Nothing,” Harry said. “Never mind. I made him a mirror, to keep an eye on her.”

“Oh,” Ginny said. “He really loves her.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed. He shifted, avoiding her eyes, and she was conscious of a sudden, cowardly urge to run away. But she owed it to Harry to let him say what he needed to say, and then maybe it would finally be over between them. “Listen, Gin. About everything, this year. I’m really sorry, you know?”

“There’s nothing to apologise for,” she said. “I was holding onto a silly little girl’s crush, from before I even knew you. That’s on me. Even if you weren’t, y’know, I don’t think we would have been good together. We’re better off as friends.”

“You’re like a sister to me, Gin,” he said, earnestly. “I love you. I hope you know that.”

“I love you too, like a brother,” she said, and was relieved to realise it was the truth. “I’m sorry about what I said about Malfoy. About him being a –” He gave her an unexpectedly sharp look, and she cut herself off, ashamed. “I _am_ sorry,” she offered, after a moment. “I was angry, but that’s no excuse. All I know is that I’ve never seen you as happy as when you’re with him. It’s nice.”

She expected him to smile, but if anything, the grief in his eyes deepened. “Thanks,” he said, and took a sip of his wine. He made a face at the taste, and handed the glass back to her. “Have you seen him?”

“Who, Malfoy?” Ginny shook her head. “No. Blaise isn’t here yet, either. They’re probably coming up together.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, but he looked anxious.

Ginny opened her mouth to ask what was wrong, but then she caught sight of Blaise, coming through the door at last, Malfoy and Nott at his side.

Blaise looked around the room, and then began heading in her direction, his lips quirked in that small smirk Ginny loved, as if he was constantly amused by the world. It was an irreverence that greatly appealed to her. As the only girl in her brood of male siblings, she had the weight of all of her mother’s expectations on her, and it was good to feel like she could do anything, _be_ anything, when she was with him.

“Gotta go!” she chirped, leaning up to peck Harry on the cheek. But his eyes were on Malfoy, and Ginny wasn’t surprised when he followed her across the room.

She was in the middle of the crowded dance-floor before she realised Blaise wasn’t looking at her.

“May I have this dance?” he said, tapping Seamus on the shoulder. Seamus, who was dancing with Pansy Parkinson.

Ginny stopped, confused.

Seamus’ arms tightened around Parkinson, but he didn’t say anything. Which was odd, because everyone knew Pansy had asked him to the party. His joy had been _infectious_ , lighting up the common room and bringing smiles to the faces of even the most frightened and miserable of them. But then, Seamus had been spending a lot of time around the Slytherins recently. Perhaps he’d learned to be cautious.

Despite every instinct telling her to march right up to her boyfriend and demand answers, Ginny decided to follow his lead. She closed her mouth, watching carefully.

Parkinson was flouting pureblood tradition too, it seemed. She wore a gorgeous red Muggle dress, dark hair swept up off perfect white shoulders into a French twist. She looked flawless, cold. But that was just her mask. After three weeks of dating Blaise, Ginny was well aware of the ubiquitious Slytherin mask.

Still, even she was surprised when Pansy stepped out of Seamus’ arms.

“Pansy?” Seamus blurted, as if her name had been ripped out of him.

Blaise moved forward, slipping an arm around Pansy’s waist. “This is _my_ date, Finnigan,” he said. “Do try not to be a sore loser, there’s a good fellow.”

Ginny felt as if someone had punched her right in the gut, winding her.

“But –” Seamus said.

“I made a promise, Seamus,” Parkinson said, and her face might have been stone for all the expression it showed. “One night, one date. He has the right to claim it at any time. That was our agreement.”

Seamus looked bewildered. “I thought the agreement was that you would _consider_ lifting your no-dating rule?”

Blaise chuckled. “Poor sap. You know, I actually believed that you didn’t know what she’d done, giving herself that loophole? I closed the loop, of course, but you – you were content to leave enough rope to hang yourself.” He shook his head. “That’s honestly pitiful. I feel sorry for you.”

Seamus bristled, and his Irish brogue thickened until it was almost unintelligible. “I would never ask her for more than she was willing to give – freely! If that makes me pitiful, so be it. _You_ , on the other hand –”

“Seamus,” Pansy said, in a low voice.

He shut his mouth with a snap.

“I, on the other hand,” Blaise taunted gently, “have won. Move along, Finnigan. Pansy is mine tonight.”

Ginny couldn’t keep silent any longer. “You BASTARD! What about _me_? I’m standing _right here_!”

Blaise turned. His eyebrows rose. “Ginny,” he said, that small smirk still playing on his lips, and suddenly Ginny wanted nothing more than to slap it right off his face. “So you are. How can I help you?”

Ginny felt her mouth drop open. “You’re dating _me_!” she shrieked.

Blaise considered that, maddeningly unruffled by her ire. “You know, I don’t think I am,” he decided. “Don’t get me wrong, it was fun while it lasted. But that’s all it was; a bit of fun. Don’t take it personally, Gin. You’re lovely, from a certain perspective, and no one could deny you’re a spitfire in bed –”

“You complete _arsehole_!” Ginny yelled. She was aware that people were turning to watch, but she was too infuriated to stop. Harry had circled the group to join Malfoy behind them, and was pulling at his hand urgently. “All this time… you saved my _life_ during the Invasion! I slept with you! We – we talked about our plans, after the war –” She broke off, biting the words back.

Blaise shrugged. “You should know better than to trust a Slytherin,” he said, impatiently. “Don’t they teach you that in Gryffindor? Never trust a snake?”

“Don’t bring House stereotypes into it, Blaise,” Pansy said, sharply. “Not tonight.” She didn’t move to step away from him, but her body was stiff with displeasure. “This is your fight; your character in question. Not ours.”

“She’s right,” Nott spoke up. “Don’t tar us all with your brush, Zabini.”

Ginny looked at him, perplexed. Tar? Was that a _Muggle_ expression, out of the mouth of one of the most traditional purebloods in all of Hogwarts? She looked around, seeing her confusion mirrored on almost every face around them.

Well, all except Harry’s, which was as impassive as Blaise’s. He’d given up on trying to make Malfoy leave, apparently.

She couldn’t _stand_ it. Blaise, Harry, they were the same. How had she not seen that before? Both completely unreadable, both with beguiling secrets lurking in the depths of their pretty, guarded eyes. Drawing her ever closer, moth to the flames, and yet never, ever letting her in.

“Fine,” Blaise said, yawning pointedly. “What a bunch of bloody bores we’ve become, now we’re on the side of the righteous. _I_ have been after Pansy for years now, Ginny dear. And we made our deal long before you came into the picture. Which means that the moral of the story is never to trust a Zabini. _Or_ a Parkinson.” He gave Pansy a mocking squeeze. “I trust you’ll not refute that, my love? After all, you’ve been stringing poor Finnigan along all this time, pretending he has a chance with you, when you and I both know it was pure pragmatism. A half-blood like Finnigan will never be more than a good lay to you, if that.”

Pansy’s lips tightened, but she said nothing. Something broke a little in Seamus’ eyes, at that, and Blaise looked pleased.

“What deal?” Ginny demanded, her hands curled into fists. “What _deal_ , Blaise?”

Blaise let his smirk widen a little. “The one where I join Pansy in convincing the other Slytherins to defect with Draco to Potter’s side, in exchange for a date. With everything that entails, of course, as she said.”

“That’s disgusting,” Ginny said, truly appalled. How could this be happening? How could she have misjudged his character so badly? “Why wouldn’t you just help her? Instead of _forcing_ yourself on a girl who clearly doesn’t want your attentions –”

Blaise’s mouth opened in a snarl. “Who said anything about force? It was a mutually beneficial transaction. Which, incidentally, Finnigan agreed to as well. And his part was much more sordid than mine. Convincing Potter to _pretend_ to be in love with Draco in order to manipulate him into defecting… and _you_ helped, Ginny. So don’t pretend you and your Gryffindor friends have the higher ground. I’m surprised you can even look me in the eye. The only difference between Finnigan and I was that _I_ was never going to be a willing patsy in Pansy’s oh-so-clever scheme.”

There were a few small gasps from their audience.

Ginny was too angry to care. She opened her mouth to retort. And then her eyes fell on Harry, and her words died in her throat. His face had drained of colour. Almost morbidly, Ginny let her eyes slide to his left, to where Malfoy stood, frozen, his hand still in Harry’s.

No one else had noticed them.

Seamus reached out to Pansy. “Please,” he said. She shook her head, and Seamus dropped his hand. “Pansy, _please_ don’t do this,” he begged. “You don’t want this. You don’t want _him_.”

For the first time, Ginny saw that cool Slytherin façade crack slightly. “I’m sorry,” Pansy said. “I don’t have a choice.”

“This is _rape_ ,” Seamus spat. “Don’t you see that?”

Pansy stiffened. “How dare you? How _dare_ you imply –”

“You said it yourself!” Seamus cried. “You made a promise! Your moral code binds you to keep that promise, which means you are bound _._ You don’t want this; you think you have to. It’s against your will, which means if Zabini doesn’t respect that, he’s _coercing_ you.” Parkinson looked stricken, but Blaise just rolled his eyes and began to draw her away. “Take me instead!” Seamus blurted.

Blaise stopped, staring at him incredulously. “Excuse me?”

“I know you swing both ways,” Seamus insisted. “Take me. I’m as straight as they come. Never been the least inclined towards boys. If you get off on unwilling partners, I’d be the better challenge.”

Blaise’s upper lip curled. “I do not _get off_ on unwilling partners. I’ve been courting Pansy – patiently, I might add – for well over a year. What makes you think I’d trade my victory, my _willing_ date, for you?”

“Because she’s not willing!” Seamus snapped. “And you know it. Your ‘victory’ would turn to ashes in bed with her.”

“He’s right,” Malfoy said, from behind them.

Pansy gasped, spinning around. Her face drained of colour. Her expression was one of utter, abject horror. Clearly she’d forgotten – or never known – that Malfoy was standing right behind her. Seamus’ eyes bugged out.

Blaise just looked bored, and perhaps a little irritated at the interruption. _Selfish fucking bastard_ , Ginny thought.

“Draco,” Pansy whispered, hands rising to cover her mouth.

Malfoy’s face was stone. “I won’t let you sleep with Zabini because of me, Pans,” he said.

Ginny sucked in a breath, goaded beyond bearing. Really? _Really_? Malfoy, too? Consumed with fury, she aimed her worst Bat-Bogey Hex at her newly ex-boyfriend. Blaise screamed and dropped to the floor, and Ginny whirled away in disgust. What a bloody _farce_. This was all Pansy Parkinson’s fault! How many boys could be in love with the _same fucking girl_?

~*~

Harry couldn’t move.

It was like he’d been frozen to the spot, and no matter how much he wanted to turn his head to look at Draco, he couldn’t. There was a trembling, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. Zabini’s words rang in his head, over and over again. So very simple. So very damning. He wanted, more than anything, to turn back time and stop Blaise and Ginny and Pansy from ruining everything. But there was no one to blame but himself.

He should have done it sooner – oh Merlin, he should have done it _sooner_ –

He only realised he still had hold of Draco’s hand when Draco pulled it away from him. He could vaguely hear his lover speaking, and the distant sound of Zabini’s screams as he warded off Bat-Bogeys, but it was like white noise in his ears.

His hand clenched uselessly on thin air. “Draco,” he said hoarsely. “ _Draco_.”

He saw Draco turn towards him, and forced himself to look. To _see_ the damage he’d caused. But Draco’s beautiful grey eyes were blank. Harry couldn’t see any damage; he couldn’t see _anything_ , and for a moment, he was baffled. It was like trying to look through a window, and seeing nothing but his reflection.

And then he understood.

These past few weeks, Draco had opened up to him, shown him everything. His eyes were the windows to his soul, but they had never been for just anyone to peek inside. Harry had been one of a very privileged few granted access, and now that privilege had been revoked.

It was like broken shards of glass driving into his soul.

“ _Draco_ ,” he gasped.

“I was impressed, you know,” Draco said, coldly. “At how well you danced with me.” Harry reached out to him, and Draco took a step backwards. “ _Don’t you even fucking think about it_ ,” he snapped, in such a vicious tone that Harry flinched back.

“Draco, it’s not what – you have to let me explain! That might have been the way it started, but it’s not now. It’s not now! I promise, Draco, I promise, I love you!”

A muscle in Draco’s jaw twitched. “I suspected, of course,” he said, too lightly. “I considered every angle, every possible motive you could have. Once I realised just how well you could lie, and that Pansy was helping you, I even thought of _this_. But I dismissed it, because I didn’t think you could lie about loving me. I didn’t think you had it in you to be _that_ cruel. I thought Pansy had just been taking advantage of your feelings to convince me to consider defection. I thought her ‘help’ extended only to that. But I should have known. You’re too stupid to have courted me successfully yourself.” His lips twisted. “Did she give you a list? Ways to get under my skin, manipulate me? Did she tell you –” He broke off with a strangled gasp. “She told you about my _mother_. Everything – _everything_ was a lie. You just wanted to _turn_ me, to win one more battle against the Dark Lord –”

“No!” Harry said. “I mean, yes, but –”

“Did it burn, every time you kissed me?” Draco said, his voice rising to drown Harry’s out. He was losing control of himself. “Every time you told me you _loved_ me?” His face flushed with pain and humiliation, and Harry longed to take him in his arms and just hold him. “Did you laugh to yourself, when I told you I loved you back?”

“Draco, _no_ ,” Harry said, horrified, but Draco was talking over him again.

“It was very well played. A performance worthy of a Slytherin. I applaud you!”

Harry just stared at him helplessly. He was horrifyingly aware that the whole room was hanging on their every word, witnesses to the annihilation of everything he held most dear. But it didn’t matter. All that mattered was the boy in front of him, shattering into a million pieces, and there was nothing he could do about it. “Draco, I’m so _sorry_ ,” he choked out.

“What for?” Draco asked. “We both got what we wanted, didn’t we?”

“That’s not –” Harry could feel himself shaking. “Draco, _please_. Please.”

“Fuck off, Potter,” Draco said, turning away.

It was like a slap in the face, and Harry stumbled back in shock. _Potter_. Draco still called him that, of course, all the time… but how could he not have noticed how much it had changed? How different it was, to how he used to say it? Warm, affectionate, sometimes exasperated, but always with that underlying tone of _Harry_. Now – now it was like ice. Venomous, and spiteful, and everything it used to be.

 _I love you_ , he cried, through their bond.

Draco whirled back to face him, looking him in the eye as he deliberately, cruelly, slammed the bond shut on him.

Harry cried out, falling to his knees. “Draco!”

Draco just watched him with shuttered eyes, waiting until Harry had staggered to his feet again. “Fuck. Off. _Potter_ ,” he said. And then he turned on his heel, storming through the crowd with his robes billowing behind him.

The door slammed behind him. It sounded like a death knell in Harry’s ears.


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for your comments and kudos!! xx

**CHAPTER TWENTY**

**O, CHILDREN**

_On with the dance! Let joy be unconfined;_  
 _No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet_  
 _To chase the glowing hours with flying feet._  
 _But hark! – that heavy sound breaks in once more,_  
 _As if the clouds its echo would repeat;_  
 _And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before;_  
 _Arm! Arm! It is – it is – the cannon’s opening roar!_  
~ Lord Byron

Part One

Pansy reached out tentatively to touch the heavily-warded door of Draco’s bedroom. His sanctuary, his retreat, lay beyond that door, but she had always been welcome inside. Now, though, she wasn’t so sure. But the door only sparked a little when she touched it, and swung open.

She peered in cautiously. “Draco?”

“Pansy,” he greeted her. He was lying on his bed, staring up at the canopy, wand in hand. “Do come in, darling.”

She hesitated, eyeing his wand.

His lip curled. “Oh, you needn’t worry. Hogwarts is built of brick and stone. Every thread of magic running through this castle is rooted deep, deep in Earth Magic. I can _feel_ Hogwarts; not just the individual stones, but the entirety of it. If I asked it to, the floor would open beneath your feet where you stand, and swallow you whole. You would never be found again.”

Pansy felt a chill go down her spine. “And why shouldn’t that worry me?” she asked.

He twitched his wand deliberately, and Pansy flinched. But nothing happened, and she looked up. He was burning holes in the canopy, she realised; sharp, jagged holes that rent and charred the beautiful, expensive fabric. “Fire,” he said. “Scorches the Earth. It’s helping me control the instinct to let the Wild Magic loose. You’re safe, for now.”

Pansy smiled faintly, recognising the olive branch for what it was. “Thank you,” she said, taking a couple of steps into the room and closing the door quietly behind her.

Draco didn’t look at her, burning a long strip down the middle of his canopy. “I take it, since you’re here, that Blaise changed his mind?”

“We’ve come to an understanding,” she agreed. “He’s furious, but that’s to be expected. I’m reneging on our deal. And he can’t do anything about it, because you stepped in, and he would never dare oppose you.”

“You should never have agreed to sell your body for me,” he said, flatly. “Never.”

“It was the only way,” Pansy told him. “I needed him.”

Draco was silent. He didn’t look at her.

Pansy sighed. “I checked in with Madam Pomfrey on my way here,” she offered. “All of ours are stable, for the time being. Daphne’s staying the night. She’s always been good with Healing spells, and she refuses to leave Astoria and Millie. The Bulstrodes didn’t come, of course. Neither did the Greengrasses.”

Draco nodded, and burnt several more holes into the canopy above him.

Pansy watched him. “Draco, love…”

“ _Don’t_ ,” he said, and the whole canopy burst into flames.

Pansy aimed a quick extinguishing spell at the fire. It wasn’t enough; she had to cast the spell twice more before the flames were out, and by the time she was finished, there was nothing left of the once-beautiful canopy but ash, floating down to cover her best friend in a thick layer of grey.

He hadn’t moved. He lay gazing up at the ceiling, every line of his body screaming defeat.

“Oh, honey,” she whispered, and his face just _crumpled_.

“Tell me it’s not true,” he said. “Pans, please, _please_ tell me it’s not true.”

“Sweetheart –”

He covered his face with his hands. “I don’t want your pity. Just tell me he wasn’t lying, all this time, about loving me. Tell me the reason he worked so hard to convince me to defect was because he loves me, not because he was working on some kind of – of undercover mission for Dumbledore, playing the obedient fucking _Chosen One_.” His breath shuddered out, and he pressed his fingers into his eyes, hard. “Tell me it’s some kind of elaborate, really sick _joke_ , Pans. It has to be. It can’t be true.”

Pansy perched on the side of the bed, reaching out to touch his arm. “I am so sorry,” she said.

He made a little moaning sound in the back of his throat. “ _Why_?” he said, and the desolation in his voice wrenched at her heart. “Why would he _do_ this to me?”

“It’s my fault,” Pansy said. “It’s my fault, Draco. My plan. Not his, or Dumbledore’s. I wanted you out, and I couldn’t see any other way to do it. It’s like you said. He was the only one you’d consider strong enough, and honourable enough, to protect you if you defected. It had to be him.”

He was silent for a long moment. “And you knew I would never trust him while he hated me. That’s why he had to pretend to be in love with me.” His voice broke on the word ‘pretend’, and a knot formed in Pansy’s throat.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“It was a clever plan,” he acknowledged. “I just didn’t realise how clever. Using your Gryffindor pup to convince the saintly _Harry Potter_ to go against his very nature and fuck his worst enemy. No, wait, fourth worst enemy. He made sure to tell me that. Still, it can’t have been easy for him. Did you coach him in how to seduce me? My favourite foods – _fuck_. The chocolates. The hair charms, the robes… None of it was him, was it?” His voice was rising, almost hysterical. “Did Blaise give you pointers on the sex, too? No wonder you owe him! I should send him a basket of Honeydukes’ finest!”

“Draco, please,” Pansy begged. Unfortunately, the conclusions he was drawing were very close to being completely right, but in all the worst ways. “Of course I didn’t give him pointers on sex! That was all Potter.”

“Was it?” he said, a hollow laugh threatening at the edges of his voice. “You manipulated me into thinking he _loved_ me, Pansy. I was right, wasn’t I, when I said that his feelings couldn’t possibly have just changed overnight? He still – he _hated_ me, then. And you made me think, made me consider –”

“I won’t apologise for that,” Pansy said.

Draco stared at her. Then he lurched up from the bed, looking lost, furious. An ominous rumbling began somewhere deep below them. “Ex _cuse_ me?”

“The Dark Lord’s task was killing you, Draco!” she said, desperately. “I couldn’t just stand by and do nothing! Potter was your only way out, so yes, I did everything in my power to convince him you were worth it, and to help him succeed!”

Draco laughed, broken and raw. “Oh, he succeeded. _You_ succeeded. You were _breathtakingly_ good. I honestly thought I was dancing to my own tune, that I was one step ahead of you, even when I realised you were in league with him. But I was always just following your lead, wasn’t I?”

“I’m sorry,” Pansy said, helplessly. “I’m _so sorry_ I hurt you. I’m sorry _he_ hurt you. You have to believe that this was the very last thing I wanted for you. I tried to warn you –”

Draco made a tortured sound in his throat. “Oh yes. _Dance_ with him, Draco. Use him to your advantage. Never, under any circumstances, fall in love with him. I remember. Pity it didn’t go to plan. But then, did you really expect it to? You know me. You knew _exactly_ how to manipulate me into accepting Potter’s offer, which means you knew this was a possibility. Maybe even planned for it.”

Pansy shook her head. “No,” she said, her eyes burning. “No, Draco. I prayed to the Founders, to Merlin himself, that you would be strong enough to get through this without losing your heart. But you’ve always been half in love with him, under all that hostility. He didn’t love you, not then, but he was attracted to you. I knew there was a chance, given a nudge in the right direction, that something might develop between you. And I was right. I was _right_ , Draco. He’s your soulmate.”

Draco scowled at her. “He’s a fucking liar, is what he is.”

“Not about that,” Pansy chided. “How could he? You’re both Natural-born Mages. Your bond is complicated and frankly terrifying, but it’s real.”

“And our love?” Draco said, bitterly. “Is _that_ real?” He drew a photo out of his pocket, and Pansy jerked back when something crawled out after it.

A tiny, almost see-through dragon.

“What in _Morgana_ ’s –?”

“I knew something was wrong,” he said, staring down at the photo in mingled confusion and rage, fingers white-knuckled around the edges. The dragon crawled up his arm, huffing questioningly. “The last couple of days, he’s been just that little bit off. He was better at lying to me when I didn’t trust him. Typical fucking Potter.”

“Draco,” Pansy said.

“What?” he snapped. He followed her gaze to the dragon, and his expression softened. “Oh.”

He coaxed it back into his hand, and it curled up in his palm, giving a little, contented puff. Then, slowly, it faded away to nothing. The look on Draco’s face was nothing short of devastated. The photo crumpled in his other hand.

“Hey, hey,” Pansy said, tugging at it gently. Draco resisted her, but when the edge threatened to tear, he let go.

She smoothed it out, looking down at it curiously. The two figures in the photo were wrapped around each other against the backdrop of a non-descript Hogwarts hallway; white-blond hair contrasting with pitch-black, hips moving, rocking, mouths pressed against each other, devouring. Potter’s tongue was in Draco’s mouth, his hand in his hair, tilting his head back, _possessing_ him. It was indecent. Shockingly intimate.

She looked up at Draco. “He loves you.”

His eyes were still on his empty palm, expression just as horribly empty. “I know,” he said. “I know he loves me, Pans. I know how _much_ he loves me. I can feel it through our bond, with every breath, every heartbeat.”

“Then,” she said, hopeful now, “Draco, surely that’s all that matters?”

“I don’t know what matters anymore,” he said, flatly. “All I know is, you knew. You _all_ knew. Blaise, Finnigan, even the Weasley bint. Weasley and Granger probably, too.” Pansy didn’t respond, but she knew her silence spoke volumes. He gave a mirthless laugh. “Of course they did. You were all helping him to _lie_ to me, helping him – for weeks, Pansy. _Weeks_. He made me believe in him, made me –” He faltered and stopped, a strangled moan escaping his lips.

“I know, honey,” Pansy said, tears beginning to slip down her face. “I am so sorry.”

“How long has he loved me, Pans?” he asked. “How long did he have to _force_ himself to kiss me? How many times did he tell me he loved me before it was the truth? Our relationship – the very _foundation_ of it – is a lie. How can I ever trust him again?”

Pansy reached out to touch his cheek, and Draco’s breath caught on a sob.

“Do I deserve this?” he asked, pleading for an answer, some way to make this make sense. “Is this my punishment, for allowing the Dark Lord to put his Mark on me? For hurting Weasley and the Bell girl? For letting the Death Eaters into Hogwarts, and forcing Severus to take my place against Dumbledore, and almost getting my mother killed... Did I bring this on myself?”

“Oh Draco, no, no,” she cried.

He fell to his knees, pressing his face into her lap, and began to weep. She wept with him.

~*~

Harry wasn’t sure how he managed to make it back to his dormitory. He had no memory of stumbling out of the Room of Requirement, or up the stairs, or into his bed. He just hid under his covers, feeling the grief batter at him, swelling in his throat, building to a scream he couldn’t release.

He had imagined the betrayal that would fill Draco’s face many, many times. Not even in his worst nightmares, though, had he considered the return of Draco’s false-face. He’d just taken it for granted, his ability to read Draco. And now Draco had cut him off two-fold, denying him both the key to the windows of his soul, and the warmth of their bond. It was unbearable; the huge, gaping _nothing_ where his other half was supposed to be.

All he could do was breathe, to try to make it from one moment to the next without surrendering to the pain. It was like there was a dam inside him, and if he let even _one_ tear escape, his tears would flood the world.

He barely registered the sound of the door opening, so when Ron’s voice spoke from right behind his curtain, he startled so badly that he hit his hand on the bedpost. The pain was a sharp spike through his hand and up his arm, and he swore violently, tears pricking at the corner of his eyes.

He forced them back.

“Harry, mate?”

“I’m _fine_!” he shouted.

There was a short silence. “You don’t sound fine,” Ron said, cautiously.

Harry ripped back the curtains and shoved past his friend, stalking into the bathroom.

“Oh dear,” the mirror said. “You look awful, honey.”

Harry snorted. He splashed his face with cold water, and all he could think was that a few short hours ago, he would have been doing this with magic; just a simple wave of his hand, his own magic supplemented by Draco’s through their bond.

He braced his hands against the sink, dropping his chin to his chest. _Just breathe_ , he told himself. _You can survive this. You’ve been alone your whole life. Why should your death be any different?_

Ron’s feet shuffled into view. “Harry,” he said. “I only caught the tail-end of it at the party, but it was pretty rough, huh?”

Harry bit his lip. A sob threatened, but he forced it back. He tried to open his mouth and make a joke, but he couldn’t. He was biting too hard, he realised; he could taste blood. Draco would be angry with him for mauling himself.

But, no. Of course he wouldn’t. Not anymore.

Ron touched his arm, and then when Harry didn’t pull away, dragged him into a bear-hug. Harry tensed, but Ron held on determinedly. Harry exhaled slowly, trying to relax. “I know this is more Hermione’s area,” Ron said, “but if you need to talk...”

Harry shook his head. Ron was right. They were lopsided without her; a tripod with only two legs, off-kilter and out of sync. “How is she?” he asked.

Ron sighed, dropping his forehead to Harry’s. Harry closed his eyes. “She’s holding on, but I think she’s getting worse.”

Fear cramped Harry’s stomach. “Madam Pomfrey will figure it out.”

Ron shivered. “It just feels like the end of the world, you know? I’ve never felt like that before.” He pulled back, gripping Harry by the shoulders. “You’re the Boy Who Lived. You _are_ going to beat him. Right?” His blue eyes pinned Harry in place, and Harry suddenly found he couldn’t breathe under the weight of that expectation.

Ron was fiercely loyal, brave and so unexpectedly wise at times that Harry sometimes forgot that he’d grown up a wizard in the wizarding world, listening to stories of the Boy Who Lived. If Hermione was here, she’d give him that disappointed look, snap “ _Ronald Weasley_ ,” and drag him away for a heart-to-heart. He always came back apologetic and determined to make things right between them.

But Hermione wasn’t here, and Harry didn’t know how to fix this without her.

“I don’t know, Ron,” he said, helplessly. “It’s just me. You and Hermione, you’re the thinkers, not me. I’m not even a warrior. Just a weapon.”

“A powerful weapon,” Ron pointed out.

“Draco’s closed the bond,” Harry told him. He could feel the wave of grief swelling up again, threatening his control. He shoved it down mercilessly. “No more bond, no more Wild Magic. No more wandless magic, even.” Ron opened his mouth to argue, and Harry made an impatient gesture. “Okay, I can do a little on my own. But nothing like what I could do with Draco.”

“Most people can’t do any wandless magic,” Ron said. “Even non-verbal magic is difficult, which is why they’ve been pushing it so much this year.”

Harry nodded. He wasn’t going to forget Snape’s taunts in DADA anytime soon. “But I wasn’t any good at it. Not until Draco.”

“Maybe he’ll come around?” Ron said, hopefully. “You’re connected by soul magic, remember? If he’s right about this White Mage thing, then he has to, doesn’t he? It’s destiny.”

Harry rolled his eyes. Fucking prophecies and ‘destinies’. It was all so vague. And, apparently, very much subject to interpretation, if Dumbledore playing fast and loose with his idea of the prophecy had taught him anything.

“Maybe our destiny is to be apart when it comes for us,” he said, throat aching with the tears he couldn’t shed. “Maybe we’ll save the fucking _world_ apart, and die alone. There’s no happily ever after for the Chosen One, Ron. I was just fooling myself. It was good while it lasted, but it’s over now. He knows the truth. He won’t be back.”

~*~

Dean found Ginny at the top of the Gryffindor Quidditch stand, hugging her knees to her chest. Her distinctive red hair was loose and flowing around her shoulders. “I thought I’d find you out here,” he said.

She looked up at him with a pained expression. “Just how badly did I embarrass myself in there?”

“If anyone should be embarrassed, it’s Zabini,” Dean said. “I can’t believe he did that to you.”

Ginny shrugged. “He’s a misogynistic jerk. I should have known better.”

“A Bat-Bogey Hex was too good for him,” Dean agreed.

She smiled slightly. “Perhaps. But I’m the one he betrayed.” She rested her chin on her knees, slanting a sideways look at him. “I’m just sorry we didn’t get that dance.”

“Me too,” Dean said. “We could fix that now?”

Ginny’s eyebrows rose. “Here?” she said, looking around.

It certainly wasn’t the most practical of locations, but Dean was flexible. “Why not?” He took her hand and drew her to her feet, and she fit against him perfectly; soft curves into hard angles. He hummed a little, tunelessly, and they swayed together. It was a clear night, thousands of stars studding the sky. It felt like they were the only two people in the world.

After a few minutes, all the tension had drained from Ginny’s slender frame, and she let her head rest against his chest with a sigh. “I really made a mess of things for Harry, huh?” she said. “He really loves Malfoy, you know. It hasn’t been about The Plan for him for a long time.”

“So I gathered,” Dean said, slowly. He wondered how she felt about that, considering Hermione’s theory that she was still half in love with the Boy Who Lived.

She gave him a wry look. “I know what you’re thinking. And, no. They’re more than welcome to each other. I don’t have any regrets. Other than Blaise, and – and breaking up with you.”

Dean felt his heart leap. “Yeah?” he said.

She snorted. “Don’t read too much into it.” But she sounded affectionate, and Dean found himself grinning.

“Did you hear Dumbledore’s changed up the time for the train?” he asked, as he spun them in a slow, careful circle on the narrow wooden bench. There was a cold breeze, this high up, but he was warm everywhere they were touching.

“No?” she said, surprised.

“I thought you might have missed the announcement. He’s sending them all home tonight instead of tomorrow morning, in case someone leaked the time to Voldemort. There’s a full squadron of Aurors going along, but Dumbledore’s hoping the train will make it back to London before Voldemort even becomes aware it’s set off. It’s leaving at midnight.”

Ginny nodded. “Are there many going?”

“Some of the parents are taking their – the kids who were injured,” Dean said. “Madam Pomfrey advised against it, but she’s pretty overwhelmed as it is, and Marietta Edgecombe’s great-aunt offered to open her place to them all. She was an emergency Healer, before she retired. Uh… some of the Slytherins, of course. Joining their parents for the fight, I guess. And a lot of the younger years. Finally realised what they’d be getting themselves into, by staying. That, or their parents insisted.”

Ginny sighed. “Yeah. Mum’s been on at Ron and I to come home, even though she and my Dad and older brothers are all planning to fight.”

“She just wants you safe,” Dean said, and Ginny stiffened slightly. “Not that you can’t take care of yourself,” he said, hastily. “You’ve already fought in _three_ battles. That’s bloody incredible.”

She smiled. “I know. But thanks.”

~*~

The train left at midnight, right on schedule, and escorted by six Aurors that were sorely needed elsewhere. But the train reached King’s Cross Station without mishap, and by ten o’clock the next morning, every student was safely home. Only then did Dumbledore allow himself a few moments’ rest, letting his eyes slip closed at his desk.

He didn’t have long, now. The curse was accelerating, and he was growing weaker by the hour, especially without Severus to hold it at bay.

He heard his Floo flare to life, and opened his eyes.

Alastor Moody’s head hovered in the flames. “Albus,” he said. “I’ve just received an aborted distress signal from Kingsley. I think we have to assume this is it. The beginning of a full-scale attack.”

Dumbledore bowed his head. The day he had been expecting for so long had come, and he was just so tired. This was not his battle. He had never been meant to face this moment.

“Albus!” Alastor said, urgently. “Did you hear me? The Ministry is under attack!”

Dumbledore braced his hands on the desk in front of him, pushing himself to his feet. He felt himself sway, and steadied himself with an effort. “Yes,” he agreed. “The Ministry will fall, and then he will turn his attention here.”

“Then we have a duty to end this before he does,” Moody said. “Dawlish is alerting the rest of the Order.”

“Alastor,” Dumbledore said. “In my current state, I am afraid I will be of very little use in mounting a defence. The curse is affecting my mind, now. I’m not thinking clearly –”

Moody’s magical eye rolled. “Curse or not, we need you, Dumbledore! Kingsley’s trapped inside, along with most of our junior and secretarial staff, and the squadron just back from escorting your students home. They were going to clean up and go straight back out. I haven’t heard from them. As for the rest of us, we’re stretched too thin after yesterday’s attack. Most of the Auror Corp and Hit Wizard Department are out. Too many of them had family or friends injured, or were injured themselves. We can’t even be sure how many of the Order will be willing or able to respond. If the Ministry falls, there may be very few left willing and able to go up against You-Know-Who.”

Dumbledore shook his head. “Where there are good men, Alastor, there will always be those willing to fight the evil in this world.” He sighed. “But you’re right. We can’t afford to lose the Ministry.”

He turned to the portraits of past headmasters on his wall. Ambrose Swott had been Headmaster during the late eighteenth century, but before his appointment to the school, he’d been one of the early founders of the modern Department of International Magical Cooperation. He was immortalised in portrait form on the fifth floor of the Ministry.

“Ambrose?” he said. “Status inside the Ministry. Quickly as you can, please.”

Swott lifted his pointed hat, and slipped away.

Dumbledore looked down at the wand in his hand. The Patronus Charm was difficult magic, and his power was fading. The Elder wand was beginning to distrust him, doubting his mastery over it. It would betray him, soon, as the children’s story warned. “ _Expecto Patronus_ ,” he said. His Patronus burst out of his wand in a stream of shimmering light, as strong and solid as ever. It settled on the perch next to Fawkes, who squawked a greeting. “Minerva,” Dumbledore told it. “The Ministry is under attack. We will attempt to stop it there, but Voldemort would not have made this move unless he was confident of a victory. You know what to do.”

The Patronus took off, swooping through the door.

“Albus!” Ambrose gasped, skidding into his portrait. His eyes were wide, the colour faded from his face, leaving him pale and washed-out. “The Ministry is overrun. Someone’s set off Fiendfyre on the ninth level. Everyone on nine and ten has been cut off. Some of the portraits are saying Voldemort has the _Minister_.”

“Thank you, Ambrose,” Dumbledore said, meeting Alastor’s eyes.

“We have people in there,” Alastor said, grimly. “Even if they’re all dead, we have to try.”

Dumbledore nodded. “We’ll need a rendezvous point. It’s too dangerous to Apparate or Floo directly into the Ministry.”

“Florean’s flat, above his ice-cream parlour,” Alastor said. “He gave me the key to the wards years ago, during the first war. The rest of the Order, whoever can make it, will meet us there.”

~*~

Elphias Doge knelt on the polished wooden floor of the Atrium, tears slipping silently down his face.

Two of his oldest and dearest friends lay dead just a few feet away, in a pile of bodies. Slaughtered, along with dozens of other Ministry employees. He’d never seen anything like it; not in all his one-hundred and sixty years of life.

The beautiful gold fountain, centrepiece of the Atrium for as long as Elphias could remember, had been transfigured into a hideous black statue. He couldn’t even bear to look at it. He was huddled with the other survivors at the base of the statue, the stench of fear and death overwhelming.

One of the women – Bertha, the security witch – was sobbing quietly. Arthur Weasley lay crumpled to one side, blood pooling around his head. He wasn’t dead, but he was bleeding out. It wouldn’t be long, now.

There was a thin haze of smoke coming up through the vents, choking and growing worse.

“What do you think, Minister?” Lord Voldemort crowed, his red eyes glowing in the dim light. “There’s no denying it has a certain beauty about it. Still, I think it’s missing something. A motto, perhaps, to mark the beginning of a new reign. Hmm... the dawn of an new era, where the might of wizard-kind will no longer be concealed. Hidden, as if we were not the most powerful beings on this great earth! That ends today! We will not be cowed by Muggles any longer, nor allow our magic to be corrupted and diluted by these so-called Muggleborn _s_ masquerading as witches and wizards. Magic is might!”

There was a roar of approval from the assembled Death Eaters. “MAGIC IS MIGHT! MAGIC IS MIGHT!”

Next to Elphias, Hestia whimpered. He groped for her hand, gripping it tightly. “Shh,” he whispered. “Quiet, child.”

She huddled a little closer to him. She’d been in the lift with him when the Death Eaters attacked. The doors had opened onto a massacre. Hestia had gone for her wand. Elphias had stopped her. The battle was almost over by then. Surrender was the only option.

“Well, what do you think, Minister?” Voldemort taunted. “Is it a suitable inscription for the monument of our victory?” Scrimgeour said nothing, bound hand and foot, gagged so tightly his flesh bulged on either side of the cord. His eyes were hard, though, betraying no pain. “Macnair,” Voldemort said, “it seems our guest of honour has forgotten his manners. Remind him for me?”

The tall, broad-shouldered executioner stepped forward. “Gladly, my lord.”

Elphias swallowed, and Hestia’s hand tightened on his. “We can’t let this happen,” she whispered, fiercely. “He’s injured. They’ll _kill_ him.”

“They need him alive,” Elphias assured her. But as fists began to pound into flesh, Scrimgeour’s grunts prompting laughter and catcalls from the other Death Eaters, it was cold comfort.

~*~

There were Death Eaters posted at both public entrances to the Ministry, with Dementors lurking behind them in the shadows. The Floos in and out of the Atrium were down, and the connection to the Minister’s personal Floo was spurting flames. The Anti-Apparition wards had been reinforced around the Atrium.

Dumbledore looked out at the visitor’s entrance. “He didn’t leave anything to chance.”

“This was planned well in advance,” Alastor agreed. “He had people on the inside.”

“We could rush the guards,” Jenkins suggested. “There’s only three of them, and seven of us.”

“Suicide!” Alastor barked. Jenkins jumped, his eyes widening.

Dumbledore sighed. “I’m afraid I agree with Alastor. There’s only three that we can see, but there are Dementors to contend with as well, and no telling how many are waiting inside.”

“We’d need an army to break down that front door,” Bill Weasley said. His arm was around his mother, who was pale and quiet. Arthur and Percy were both inside the Ministry.

“Seven against who knows how many,” Fleur said, her voice wavering. “Where _is_ everyone?”

“Elphias, Hestia and Kingsley are inside,” Alastor said. “Dead or alive, we have no idea. Don’t know where Mundungus is, either, of course. Tom and Mabel Quisenberry were killed yesterday in the attack on Hogsmeade. Sturgis is in St Mungo’s with his father – he’s critically injured – and Brian Myers took a couple dozen of the injured into his own home, after St Mungo’s overflowed. Diggle is helping him.”

“Dedalus Diggle?” Jenkins said, sceptically.

“He trained as a field medi-wizard, in the last war,” Dumbledore explained. “Before your time.”

“Fred and George are coming,” Bill offered. “Couldn’t keep them away.”

“Of course they are, my good boys,” Molly said, tearfully. “I Floo-called Charlie as soon as I heard; he’s coming in from Romania. Fred and George are meeting him at Heathrow. They’ll bring him here.”

“Can’t afford to wait,” Alastor said. “We have to go now.”

“What about the Apparition points?” Dawlish suggested.

Alastor shook his head. “Thought of that. The ones on level two will be guarded, no doubt about it.”

“In the MLE, yes,” Dawlish said. “And the one on level nine; that will be gone, if Dumbledore’s intel is correct. But there’s one more –”

“On level five,” Dumbledore agreed. “The Office for the International Confederation of Wizards. It’s warded, used mainly by delegates. Special invitation only. I believe you’re right, Dawlish. It’s our best hope of a successful infiltration.”

“And you were reinstated earlier this year,” Molly recalled. “You have the key to the wards, Albus?”

“I do,” Dumbledore said.

“I’ll go first,” Alastor decided. “If it’s safe, I’ll come back for you all.”

“To hell with that!” Dawlish said forcefully, stepping up beside him. “I’m coming with you. I’ve already lost one partner this week. I won’t lose another.”

Alastor snorted, muttering about upstart new Head Aurors assigning young whipper-snappers to perfectly competent senior Aurors. Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. If Kingsley had convinced Alastor (who had lost two partners in a row, right out of the Academy, and had refused to work with another since) to take on _Dawlish_ , he was already proving himself to be an exceptional Head of the Department. Unfortunately, there had been no word from him since the distress signal. “Together, then,” Alastor grunted.

They were back in under three minutes.

“It’s quiet,” he said, tersely. “We didn’t go far, but the immediate area is secure. We’ll go in two at a time. Wait for five seconds between each pair to allow time to clear the Apparition point.”

Dawlish and Jenkins went first, and the others followed. Dumbledore waited until the end, and then he put a hand on Moody’s arm. “I’m afraid I don’t have the strength for another Apparition, old friend. Will you Side-Along me?”

Alastor fixed his good eye on Dumbledore’s face. “This is not the end, Albus,” he said, firmly. “This is not the day You-Know-Who wins. We don’t go down fighting today. We drive them out, and if we can’t do that, we live to fight the next battle.”

Dumbledore smiled. “As usual, I bow to your wisdom, Alastor.”

Alastor Disapparated them, and they arrived inside the Ministry. Dumbledore stepped away, scanning the room. Dawlish was at the door already, organising the group into two smaller teams. “You go on ahead,” Dumbledore told them. “I’ll be with you shortly.”

“Albus?”

“Just a few moments, please,” Dumbledore said. They filed out of the room, some more reluctantly than others. Dumbledore closed the door behind them. “Severus,” he said.

There was a deep sigh, and Severus pulled off the Invisibility Cloak. “I might have known you’d see right through it.”

“I’m pleased to see you’re alive,” Dumbledore said. “Might I ask what you’re doing here, and with Harry’s Cloak? Should I infer from that that you have retained your place in the inner circle?”

“You should,” Severus said simply, folding up the cloak.

“You’re here for me,” Dumbledore concluded. “To complete young Malfoy’s task?” Severus nodded. “You knew I’d come in this entrance. Does Voldemort know?”

“No,” Severus said. “Apparently Bellatrix was convinced by our performance that night. The Dark Lord was inclined to be suspicious, but he seems to have placed the blame squarely on Draco and Miss Parkinson. Still, he’s displeased with my failure. This is my opportunity to ‘redeem’ myself. He knows I know your methods, and he knows I will die unless I finish Draco’s task and kill you. He’s left it up to me how I will save my own life.”

“Good,” Dumbledore said.

Snape’s face twisted. “No, not _good_ , Albus. He wants me to take Elder wand from you.”

“Does he indeed?” Dumbledore said, raising an eyebrow. “That was faster than I’d anticipated.”

“Then it’s true?” Severus said, staring at him. “You really have – the Deathly Hallows, they’re real?” Dumbledore nodded, and Severus ran a hand through his hair, looking agitated. “He said he traced it back to Gellert Grindelwald. He said he visited him in Nurmengard last week, and Grindelwald told him you won the wand from him in that final battle.”

“I did,” Dumbledore agreed. “I hoped to have mastery of it until I died, thereby ending its long, bloody history.”

“But you haven’t died,” Severus said. “Your plan failed! The Dark Lord knows the lore about brother wands now. That’s why he went looking for the Elder wand. Ollivander told him that once Potter’s wand had defeated his in the graveyard, any wand he used in future would recognise Potter’s wand as its master. Any wand but, potentially, the most powerful and evil wand in the world. If he defeats you –”

“He will gain mastery of the wand,” Dumbledore agreed.

“But Potter will have no chance against that!”

“Severus,” Dumbledore said, sharply. “He never had a ‘chance’. Lily’s son was always meant to die. You accepted that, long ago. Fortunately for us all, the boy has now, too.”

Severus frowned. “You mean you told him about the Horcrux? And... he is willing to die? _How_? You said it would take time, that I would have to lead him to it slowly.”

“And so I thought,” Dumbledore agreed. “But love is a powerful force, and he didn’t need us, in the end.”

Severus laughed, harsh and unamused. “Love. So it comes full circle.”

Dumbledore smiled. “Lily’s love for her son certainly played its part, but I believe now it is the love between Harry and Malfoy that will ultimately bring the prophecy to fulfilment. Harry’s death will likely be the catalyst, and in his grief, young Malfoy will strike the killing blow.”

Severus blinked. “Draco Malfoy?”

“You doubt their love,” Dumbledore said. “I assure you, it is very real. As is their bond.”

“Their bond?” Severus repeated, puzzled. “I thought Poppy ruled that out. What kind of bond could have formed without their consent?”

“Ah,” Dumbledore said, “but there was consent, you see. Granted, not entirely conscious on their parts, but not entirely unconscious, either. Evidently it was formed by the Wild Magic itself. They are Natural-born Mages, Severus. A breed we have not seen before; born together, fused together by more than just their souls.”

Severus paled. “ _More_ than their souls? What do you mean?”

“The truth of it is in their magic. The way it intertwines, the multiple threads of magic connecting them… Poppy is convinced the bond could not have settled without the involvement of their hearts.”

Severus sucked in a breath. “ _No_.”

“The bond is rooted deep in them both now,” Dumbledore told him, not unsympathetically. “It has been for a very long time. Even if we wanted to separate them, it could not be done. I think it was too late before we even became aware of their connection.”

“But – Dumbledore, he’ll _die_ ,” Severus said, anguished. “If it’s true, when Potter dies, Draco will waste away to _nothing_!”

“But not, hopefully, before he kills Voldemort,” Dumbledore said. Severus made a horrified noise of protest, and Dumbledore raised a hand. “It was Malfoy himself who condemned them both to this fate. In the blind, wilful stubbornness of youth, he decided that he could not allow Harry to die, and so he told Harry what the boy should never have known. And now they will both die, and there is nothing we can do to prevent it.”

Severus whirled away, lashing out at the nearest wall. He cried out, cradling his hand as he slid to his knees. Dumbledore eyed him impatiently. He looked the very picture of despair, tears slipping slowly down his sallow face. Really, he could be tiresomely sentimental. Usually all that was required was a firm hand to bring him back into line, but clearly this situation required a little more finesse.

“I am truly sorry, Severus,” he said, softening his tone. “I know you care for the boy.”

“How can I let this happen?” Severus said, hoarsely. “A heart-bond, Salazar grant me mercy. What will I tell his _mother_?”

“You will have to worry about that later, I’m afraid,” Dumbledore said. “You need to return to Hogwarts now. There is nothing left for you here.”

Severus shook his head. “The Elder wand?”

Dumbledore considered him for a moment. Was it possible he had not yet realised the truth? “Voldemort revealed the wand’s nature to you, Severus. He asked you to take it from me. Even if I hand it over to you willingly, even if it doesn’t recognise you as its master –”

Severus sucked in a breath. “He will kill me, just to make sure. This task was never anything but a death sentence. Death at his hand, if I succeed; death at yours, or the Vow’s, if I fail. Whatever happens, whichever path I choose, I am as damned as Draco and Potter.”

“So spend your last hours doing good, my boy,” Dumbledore recommended, “that you may face Lily Potter in the afterlife with a clear conscience.” Severus flinched, hard, and Dumbledore was satisfied that his point had been made. “Go to Hogwarts,” he said. “If he takes the Ministry, he’ll go after the school next. They’ll need you.”

“Next?” Severus echoed, blankly. He scrambled to his feet. “You fool, Dumbledore! The Ministry is not his first target. Surely you knew that! We’re here to draw _you_ out. There’s only a hundred-odd here. The rest… they’re already at Hogwarts!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins...
> 
> The title of this chapter comes from the song by Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds, featured in that iconic scene in the first Deathly Hallows movie. My favourite scene in the entire series!!


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for your comments and kudos! Just want to say I appreciate everyone who's stuck with it this long, and I hope you continue to enjoy as we approach the climax! xx

**CHAPTER TWENTY**

**O, CHILDREN**

Part Two

At noon on Saturday the seventh of June, Voldemort’s army came to Hogwarts.

There was no fanfare, no warning of their arrival. One moment Harry was watching the professors raise the boundary wards, and the next there were hundreds of black-robed Death Eaters outside the front gates. Just standing there; still, silent, like a mirage, the shadows of several huge giants looming in the distance behind them. He stared. That many Apparitions, all at once should have sounded like gunfire, or the climax of an enormous fireworks display.

“Um,” he said. “Professor?”

McGonagall had recruited several of the parents and other professors to help her raise the boundary wards. They were rising fast and solid over the pre-existing structure of Anti-Apparition and Anti-Muggle wards, making a huge dome over the castle grounds. But Harry’s eyes caught on an odd flicker, and then another, rippling across the surface from the direction of the gates.

His heart rose into his throat. “Professor!”

McGonagall turned, following the direction of his gaze. “Filius, Charity!” she cried.

Flitwick and Burbage were already casting by the time Harry raised his wand to help. He wavered, uncertain. He didn’t even know what spells they were using. He felt suddenly, woefully, inadequate.

“Mr Potter,” Professor McGonagall said. Her wand was still in the air, the edges of the boundary wards beginning to come together above them. “Did you do as I asked?”

“Yes, professor,” Harry said, quickly. Dumbledore had been called away from Hogwarts, but he’d left standing orders for a potential attack. “Everyone’s either in the Great Hall or the infirmary.” Professor McGonagall had given him a spell which swept Hogwarts from towers to dungeons for any stragglers. “Can I help with anything el –?”

“Minerva!” Flitwick interrupted. He’d cast the Magnifying Charm on his eyes, and they looked enormous in his small face. “Greene and Savage have made it to the gates.”

“Good,” she said. “We have the wards well in hand, Potter. They’ll be up within the minute. I need you to find somewhere to protect the young children, separate from those who don’t want to fight.” She didn’t say there might still be enemies among them, and Harry thought of Sadie Atwood.

Flitwick cried out in warning.

 _Crash_. A giant had just punched through the heavy, wrought-iron gates. He began to pound his fists against the wards. All of the professors immediately focused their wands in that direction. Harry panicked. He didn’t know much about wards, but with the Death Eaters already attacking, and the dome not complete… could the giant –?

“ _Go_ , Potter!” McGongall cried. “Get the children somewhere safe! Hide them!”

Harry ran.

~*~

Draco didn’t linger through the streets of Hogsmeade. It was a mild, sunny day, but there were goosebumps on his arms. Every shop was closed, evey curtain drawn. There was blood on the corner of Main Street, presumably from the attack yesterday. A sense of urgency drove him on.

“Draco?” Vince said, breathlessly. “Are we meeting our fathers here?”

Draco scoffed. “No, we most certainly are not. Our fathers are miles away, thank Merlin.”

“Draco,” Greg puffed. “Vince and I… We’ve both had letters from our fathers. They said it’s our duty to join the Dark Lord. They said we never got the Mark, so the Dark Lord is willing to overlook our defection. We’ll be punished, but only a bit, and then we’ll be free.”

Draco whirled on his heel. “I _beg_ your pardon?”

“You know we’ll follow you, whatever,” Greg rushed to say. “Just –”

“Greg, free is the last thing you’ll be if you go back to him. Bowing and scraping, fighting for his approval, tortured on a whim... Have you ever been _Crucio_ ’d?”

Greg shook his head wordlessly.

“I have,” Vince offered. “Father’s used it for punishment ever since I was little.”

Draco stared at him. He hated that he wasn’t surprised by that, and hated even more that he’d never known. His own father had never gone that far, of course, but he’d experienced it at the Dark Lord’s hand. Just once; a warning, to make sure he knew failure would not be tolerated. That was enough to last him a lifetime. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It hurts like nothing else. And the Dark Lord uses it on his followers indiscriminately, Greg. Even those he trusts absolutely, like my Aunt Bella. He’s a madman, and he’s going to lose. If you go back, you’ll die, or go to prison for the rest of your life. Our fathers are trapped by the poor choices they made decades ago. We aren’t. We can make our own choices, here and now.”

“If the Dark Lord loses, our fathers will go back to Azkaban,” Greg said. “They might even be Kissed, this time.”

“Yes,” Draco agreed. “So we really only have one choice: fight the Dark Lord and possibly win our freedom, or fight _for_ him, and almost certainly be sentenced alongside our fathers.”

“Not much of a choice,” Vincent grunted.

“But what if the Dark Lord wins?” Greg asked. “My father said they have inferi, Draco. He has the _walking dead_ fighting for him.”

“It won’t make a difference. Potter will win.”

Vince looked stunned.

Greg gaped at him. “You still –?”

“Of course,” Draco said, sharply. “We’re going to fight with him, because it’s the right thing to do, and because we don’t want to be on the losing side. Do you want to go to Azkaban? Your children won’t thank you for being on the wrong side of a world fucking war, believe me.”

Greg frowned. “I didn’t think about children.”

“You have to,” Draco urged. “They’re our future, Greg. Do you want them to grow up like we did, painted with the sins of our fathers, ostracised by the rest of the world for being the children of Death Eaters? Or do you want them to be children of war heroes, with – with _life_ , and opportunity, and hope for a future?”

Greg considered that. “Not much of a choice.”

Vincent grunted again. “’S what I said.”

“Good,” Draco said, satisfied, and kept going.

~*~

The Fiendfyre was burning out of control. There was no way around it, and there were people trapped on the other side. Kingsley had fought until he couldn’t anymore, and then he was forced to hide while the Death Eaters retreated, victorious, to the Atrium.

He could hear their cheers, just faintly, through the vents. The battle had been lost. He knew it, but he refused to die. Not if there was any chance the Fiendfyre hadn’t reached the tenth floor yet. He couldn’t stop it; the Department of Mysteries was gone. But he could save the lives of dozens of innocent Ministry workers, if he could just _contain_ it.

He forced himself up to his knees, pressing a hand against the hole in his stomach. He stifled a cry behind gritted teeth. He’d cauterised the wound, but it wasn’t enough. He could feel his own bowels, trying to escape through his fingers. Crawling forward, he felt the blast of heat from underneath the door.

 _Merlin help us,_ he thought.

“ _Alohomora_ ,” he mouthed. The door swung open. The roar of the fire was immediate and deafening. Kingsley shielded his face as the smoke scorched his lungs. He coughed, and it turned into a painful hacking. Then the Fiendfyre noticed him, and turned. It transformed into a huge eagle, bearing down on him with wings of billowing flames.

“ _Partis Temporus_ ,” Kingsley whispered, hoarsely.

The flames roared past him into the room. He curled into a ball, covering his head. The Fiendfyre consumed everything in the room in seconds, and then turned on him again. The heat was unbearable. Just _one_ touch, one lick of flame against his skin, and he would be incinerated.

He rasped out the spell again and again, trying to inch his way out the door. But the Fiendfyre was eating at the walls now. And the chamber beyond was an inferno. Every breath was agony. His eyes watered, but the tears dried before they could fall. He wouldn’t survive long enough to get through the Fiendfyre, let alone do anything to stop it. His magic was already depleted, just trying to keep himself alive.

“ _Partis Temporus_ ,” he said, one last time.

And watched the fire come for him.

~*~

The Ministry lifts had been destroyed, so they had to take the stairs.

Thick, black smoke was rising from the lower levels. Molly, Bill, Fleur and Jenkins headed up, to search each level for survivors, and get any injured to safety. The Floo Network Authority and Portkey Office were on the sixth floor, and Dumbledore was hoping they would be able to find a quick and safe way out.

Dumbledore’s team headed down.

The smoke quickly made breathing impossible. Dumbledore cast the Bubble-Head Charm, and Alastor and Dawlish followed suit. It made it easier to continue, but by the time they reached the bottom of the stairwell, the smoke was so dense that he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. Sweat was dripping down his beard. He felt for the door handle, and removed his hand hastily as it burned his fingertips.

“Ah,” he said, casting a non-verbal healing charm on his fingers.

“If we open that door, we’re dead,” Moody said, grimly. “And so is everyone else in the Ministry.”

“The Unspeakables,” Dawlish said. “If they made it to the stairs –”

“They may be safe on the tenth floor,” Dumbledore agreed.

“There’s no way we can make it to the stairs,” Alastor argued. For security purposes, the tenth floor, consisting of the old courtooms and basement cells, could only be accessed by a small staircase next to the lifts. “ _Partis Temporus_ won’t be strong enough to stand up against the backdraft when we open that door.”

“There may be one way,” Dumbledore told him. “I once read an academic paper which suggested the use of a vacuum to snuff Fiendfyre out. The theory seemed sound, but I’m afraid I don’t know if it was ever tested.”

Dawish shifted. “Could work. Even Fiendfyre can’t survive without oxygen, right?”

“But we’d need a vacuum on both sides of the door, simultaneously,” Alastor said. “We’d never survive it.”

“We’ll expand the Bubble-Head Charm to encompass our bodies. That will keep us safe from the vacuum,” Dumbledore said. He didn’t add that nothing could protect them from the fire, if the vacuum didn’t work. Moody and Dawlish were trained Aurors; they knew. “I’ll open the door. You cast the vacuums.”

There was no more discussion. It was the only plan they had. They moved up the stairs to the nearest corner, expanding their bubbles.

“On three,” Alastor said. Dumbledore raised his wand. “One. Two. Three!”

Dumbledore cast _Alohomora_. Dawlish and Moody cried, “ _Inanis Caeli_!”

The door swung open. The fire roared.

Silence.

… Dumbledore breathed in.

Dawlish whooped triumphantly. He cast a Propelling Charm on his bubble, zooming down the stairs. Moody followed on his heels. Dumbledore took the stairs more slowly, aware that he was tiring. He had to conserve his energy.

Alastor shouted another Bubble-Head Charm. Dumbledore frowned. A survivor? The hall was scorched and blackened, the walls burned away, framework exposed. The few pieces of furniture left were unrecognisable. At the end of the hall, a body lay in the doorway to the Department Head’s office.

Kingsley Shacklebolt.

~*~

The little bell on The Three Broomsticks’ door rang loudly in the silence. Draco’s arms prickled. Why was it so bloody _quiet_?

“Can I help you?” Madam Rosmerta asked.

Draco forgot his apprehension as he looked at her. For the first time, he really allowed himself to _see_ the toll his curse had taken on her. _Finite Incantatem_ , he thought. Her expression cleared slowly, and she staggered back. Draco took two strides forward, grabbing her elbow and easing her down into a chair. He found his throat was tight, and he had to force the words out.

“I just want you to know how sorry I am.”

She looked up at him, confusion turning to anger. Her hand slipped into her sleeve. “ _You_ ,” she choked.

He took a step back, raising his hands. Crabbe and Goyle shifted behind him, and Draco shook his head quickly. “We’re not here to fight.”

“What are you here for, then?” she demanded. “If you think I’ll let you Obliviate your crimes away –”

“No,” Draco said. “I’m sorry. I just came to remove it. And apologise.”

“Why?” she said, eyes narrowed. “You have to know I’m going straight to the Auror Department to report you. Using an Unforgivable _during_ the trial in which you accused another boy of the same crime –”

“I won’t stop you,” Draco said.

“So _why_?” she said, stabbing her wand forward to emphasise her point. “Why now?”

Draco hesitated. He didn’t want to talk about Potter. In fact, he’d be quite happy to never see that speccy-faced _bastard_ ever again. But he’d promised himself he would allow Madam Rosmerta to take whatever retribution she desired for the wrong he’d dealt her. “I have a – connection, with Harry Potter,” he said, reluctantly. “A soul-bond. It means he can feel whenever I cast Dark magic. I don’t know whether he could feel the Imperius Curse I had on you, but if there was even the remotest possibility it might affect his ability to fight the Dark Lord, I couldn’t risk it.”

She frowned. “I’m sorry –? Did you say _you’re_ bonded to Harry Potter?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Draco said, stiffly.

Rosmerta stared at him. “I saw you sitting with Potter, at Finch-Fletchley’s trial. You’re really a couple?”

“Were a couple, ma’am,” Draco corrected her. “Not anymore. It’s – complicated.”

“Ah,” she said, lowering her wand at last. Her eyes were shrewd. “You defected for him. That’s why you’re here, now.”

More than anything, Draco wanted to run, to hide from her knowing gaze. But she deserved better, so he just waited silently for her judgement.

“You’ve had me under the Imperius Curse for months,” she said. “You used me to try to kill a _child_. I can’t pretend to understand your motivations, but you could have had me say anything during your court-case. I’m the owner of this establishment, and an respected member of the community. You could have had me destroy the defence’s case. But you didn’t. You let me tell the truth, even though the truth – that I saw only the aftermath – was less than helpful to you. Whatever your reasons for doing so, it seems clear what your motives are now. So, Mr Malfoy. This is my proposal. You give me your solemn word that you will sit down with me after the war to explain yourself, and we’ll say no more about it now.”

“Of course,” Draco said, relieved. “Thank –”

There was a resounding _boom_ , and the ground shook. Several bottles of butterbeer shattered to the floor behind the bar.

~*~

Ron stumbled, catching himself against the wall. “Merlin!” he said. “The _fuck_ –?”

“They’re here,” Narcissa Malfoy said, from the window.

Ron ran over to her, pushing the curtains aside. He gasped. The boundary wards were up; a shimmering dome across the sky. And beyond them was an army, stretching along the border of the wards, as far as the eye could see.

They were under attack.

“Mr Weasley, Miss Greengrass,” Madam Pomfrey said. “You are needed out there. Go.”

Daphne looked up from administering a blood-replenishing potion to Anthony Goldstein. His chest was half-caved in; one of the worst of the category ones sent back from St Mungo’s. The vial was already half-empty. Ron knew that when it ran out, Anthony and several other kids would die. They were doling it out as sparingly as possible, but all the potions were running dangerously low.

“You need us here, ma’am,” Daphne argued. Her sister had suffered a Wasting Curse during the loyalist spree. It was a slow, painful death, reversible only with the specialised skills of two Healers at once. The best Madam Pomfrey could do was keep her under stasis charms.

“Yes,” Pomfrey acknowledged. “But every able-bodied person needs to be out there now. That means you, too. We’ve all rested, in large part thanks to your efforts. Dennis will stay, and Mrs Malfoy is too fragile to fight. Between the five of us, we will manage.”

Junior Healer Reed glanced up from where he was kneeling beside Astoria’s bed, casting a hydration and electrolyte balancing spell. He didn’t stop, but he nodded reassuringly.

“Come on, Greengrass,” Ron said. “Your sister’s in good hands.”

Daphne stoppered the vial carefully, handing it to Madam Pomfrey. “Take care of her,” she said, her voice strained.

“We’ll do everything we can,” Pomfrey assured her, gently. “You just make sure you come back to her safely.”

Ron stopped by Hermione’s bed before they left, bending to press a quick kiss to her forehead. Her breathing was slow and even, and Ron could almost fool himself into thinking she was just sleeping. But her skin was pale and cold, worse than before. He honestly didn’t know how he was ever going to repay Narcissa, who had stayed up all night working on her and the other patients under her care. Malfoy’s _mum_ , of all people, battling tirelessly against the curse to stop the drain of Hermione’s magic from her body.

“Don’t stop fighting,” he murmured.

He imagined her tutting at him in response. _Of course I’d never give up, Ronald._

Another _boom_ shook the castle. He stumbled into Auror Proudfoot. “Sorry!” he gasped.

The Auror waved off his apology. His attention was fixed on his patient, June Redcombe’s boyfriend. It was a particularly nasty curse-variant of the dragon pox. All they could do for him was palliative care. His girlfriend sat at his bedside; herself a patient under observation. She wasn’t crying, but she had been, recently, judging by her blotchy face. Their parents were outside, bolstering the wards.

Ron thought, fleetingly, that it would be better if the boy just died. Maybe then they could focus their efforts on people who actually might have a chance. But he knew Hermione would not want to live at the cost of letting someone else suffer, and Ron silently begged her forgiveness for even thinking it, a sick knot of shame in his stomach.

He glanced back as they left the infirmary, but she was already obscured from view.

~*~

Dumbledore cast a charm for locating bodies in burned buildings, but found only six piles of ash. There were survivors, then, but where?

Dawlish vomited when he found the remnants of a family-style watch buried in one of the mounds of ash. His young cousin had just been hired as junior secretary to the Head of the Unspeakables. Dumbledore remembered her as an unusually bright witch with a shy smile and sparkling eyes. Graduated Hogwarts only three years previously.

They found a couple of Aurors sheltering in the Time Chamber. They had survived by creating a time loop with the residual time magic in the room. But there was no one else, on either the ninth or tenth floors, even though it seemed the tenth had been spared the worst of the Fiendfyre.

Still, the time loop gave Dumbledore an idea. He returned to the Transformation Chamber, where he’d noticed a little ripple of magic. A simple _Revelio_ proved his suspicion correct.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” Dawlish said. His eyes were red, but his voice was steady. Dumbledore gave him an approving nod.

“I think it’s a pocket dimension,” Auror Tarr said, waving her wand slowly over the portal. “I had no idea such a thing was feasible.”

“Can we go through?” her young partner asked. “Tell them it’s safe to come back?”

“Absolutely not!” Alastor snapped. “Don’t be a fool!”

“He’s right,” Tarr said. “See the flickering, Eliza?”

“Oh,” said the girl. “It’s unstable?”

Tarr nodded.

“Damned Unspeakables,” Moody said, irritably. “Of all times to get themselves stuck in a pocket dimension! We don’t have the time or manpower to waste getting them out right now.”

“I’ll do it,” Kingsley said.

“No,” Dawlish said, immediately. “All due respect, sir, you’re lucky to be alive right now. I’m taking you to St Mungo’s.”

“I believe that’s for the best, Kingsley,” Dumbledore agreed. He’d seen wizards succumb to the Evisceration Curse within minutes. That Shacklebolt had survived for almost half-an-hour alone, and against Fiendfyre, was astonishing. Moody had provided first aid, but the Acting Head Auror would need several days of bed rest and medical attention before he was fully recovered.

Kingsley shook his head. “St Mungo’s is overflowing. You can come back for me when it’s all over.”

“Dawlish is right,” Moody said, gruffly. “We’ve got people looking for Portkeys to get the injured out. That means you, too, sir.”

Kingsley’s jaw firmed. “No. I appreciate your concern, but I’m more useful here. We’ll need the Unspeakables before the end. We’ll need everyone we can get.”

Dawlish and Alastor seemed inclined to continue to argue the point, so Dumbledore intervened. “You’re right, of course, Kingsley,” he said. “We will see you soon, I’m sure. Now, if everyone else is ready, I’m afraid we should tarry no longer. There are hostages in the Atrium.”

“Go, rescue them,” Kingsley said, to his Aurors. “That’s an order.”

Alastor shook his head. “Constant vigilance, Shacklebolt. Don’t die down here.”

“You too,” Kingsley said, wryly. “Merlin be with us all.”

~*~

A powerful volley reverberated through the castle. It made the walls rattle, tapestries and portraits clattering to the floor. An armoured knight fell with a crash. The noise was deafening.

“RON!” a voice cried.

He jerked back instinctively, wrenching Daphne with him. A huge stone giffith smashed to the floor a split second later. Shards of stone ripped into his exposed side and arm. He screamed.

“ _Ron_!” Harry cried. He sounded frantic. “Ron, are you okay?”

“Fuck,” he said, staggering. There was stone embedded in his skin, all up his side and arm. Blood was already soaking into his robes. “Ow,” he said, looking up at Harry. He was with the Patil twins and a group of about twenty kids, a couple of floors above them. They looked terrified, clinging to the banisters. “I’m fine. Thanks for that.”

“Idiot,” Daphne said, sounding shocked. He’d half-turned as he pulled her back, shielding her with his body. “What were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t,” he groaned. His fingers slipped in blood as he tried to grasp the largest shard.

“Stop,” she said, hand over his. “Stop! It’s your wand arm. Let me.”

Surprised, Ron let her take over. “Thanks.” He looked up at Harry again. “What’s going on?”

“I’m taking them to the Room,” Harry said. He was holding Adeline’s hand. “I’ll be back in a minute, yeah?”

One of the little first-years whimpered. “You’re not staying with us?”

Parvarti put an arm around her, opening her mouth. Nothing came out, and her face twisted in frustration. Ron remembered she’d been hit with a Strangulation Curse yesterday.

“We are,” Padma said instead, gently. “All right? Me and Parvarti. We’re taking you to a secret room. No one will find us there. We’ll be safe.”

Ron watched as Harry urged everyone to start moving up the stairs again. His throat closed. Always that bloody saviour complex, always saving everyone else. He wanted to say something, but he didn’t know what. “Watch your step, mate!” he settled on.

Harry glanced over the banister at him. “You too, Ron. See you soon.”

Daphne murmured a summoning spell, and Ron felt a sharp pain lance through his side. “Merlin’s purple panties!” he swore, grabbing onto her for support.

“That was the last one,” Daphne said. “Hold still now, and I’ll heal them.”

Ron dared to look down at his injuries, and winced. He felt woozy.

By the time Daphne had finished, Harry was gone. But there was still someone lingering on the stairs; a boy with blond hair. He looked vaguely familiar, but Ron couldn’t place him. “Daphne,” the boy called, and she looked up in surprise. “Can I come with you? Theo said he’s going to fight. I want to fight with him.”

Daphne’s mouth thinned. “That’s very brave, Oliver. But he wants you safe, and so do I. Go with Potter. I’ll look after Theo as if he were a Greengrass. My word as a Slytherin.”

He studied her face for a moment. “Okay,” he said, lower lip trembling a little. “Thank you.”

“Hurry now,” she encouraged. “You don’t want to be left behind.”

He nodded, turning and running after the group obediently.

Ron raised an eyebrow. He might not be a traditional pureblood, but he knew as well as anyone else what a declaration like that meant. “Nott, is it? Lucky guy,” he commented, mildly.

Dark eyes pinned him in place. “That was none of your business, Weasley. And if you dare mention it to _anyone_ , I will hunt you down and string you up to a Quidditch hoop by your balls.” She tossed her curls over her shoulder and marched off, down the hall.

Ron gaped for a moment. Then another _boom_ shook the castle, and he ran after her.

~*~

The ground was shaking intermittently beneath their feet. More than one face peered out at them as they ran, but no one ventured outside to ask what was going on. As they got closer to Hogwarts, Draco recognised the muted roar as the sound of many hundreds of voices, raised in battle cries.

He should have known that something was wrong. That silence – it had been unnatural. No doubt the work of an advance guard, masking the army’s arrival with a powerful Imperturbable Charm around the whole area.

Terror clawed at his chest, but he pushed himself on. The roar was so loud, now, he honestly wasn’t sure if it was spell-work or their voices causing the earth to shake. He slowed as he climbed the hill behind the Shrieking Shack.

“Careful, now,” Madam Rosmerta whispered, from behind him.

Draco nodded, dropping to his knees. He crawled up the last few feet.

What he saw took his breath away.

Hundreds of Death Eaters. Giants. Vampires, conspicuous by the heavy robes they wore to protect them from the sun. An enormous flock of Dementors, floating above them in the clear blue sky. And – hundreds of inferi, the smell of their decayed flesh making him gag even from a distance. Draco stared at them in horror. He’d never seen an inferi before. Those had been _people_ , once. Muggles, wizards; it didn’t matter. Someone, somewhere, had _loved_ those people. It was a travesty.

At the gates stood his Aunt Bella, her wand raised. As he watched, she screamed, and the army roared in response. A barrage of spells soared through the sky at once. Just as they hit, a dozen giants pounded their fists into the wards below.

The resulting _boom_ shook the earth.

“What do you see?” Vince hissed, not quietly enough.

Draco’s eyes snapped to a group of Dementors less than ten feet away. Several of them turned, floating down towards them. Draco ducked. “Back, _back_ ,” he hissed, waving his hands frantically.

But it was too late. The back of his neck began to prickle, and a chill crept over his skin.

He was standing in the middle of the inter-house party again, Blaise’s smug voice ringing in his ears. _Pretend to be in love… manipulate him into defecting…_

Potter had played him. Every look, every touch, every word of that bastard’s mouth had been a _lie_. He hated it, hated Potter _so much_. He wanted to rage, and cry, and scream. Wanted to put his hands around Potter’s pretty neck and squeeze the life out of him. Wanted to see the betrayal in his eyes, to make him _feel_ what Draco felt: the pain, the grief, the swelling, aching fury that had no outlet. Because he hated him, _hated him_ , more than he could articulate.

But the worst of it – the absolute _worst_ – was that all the hate in the world couldn’t compare with how much he still loved him.

Tears streamed down his face. Someone was pulling at his arm, but there was a heavy blanket of darkness closing in around him. He couldn’t have fought it if he’d tried. The wound was too raw, too fresh, the desolation overwhelming.

His head bowed. And in the moment between one breath and the next, he knew he would never be happy again.

~*~

Harry gasped, his knees buckling. “ _Draco_!”

“Harry?” Padma said, from somewhere far away. “What’s wrong?”

Harry barely heard her. There were kids crying somewhere nearby, and Parvati put a hand on his arm, hovering in front of him with worried eyes. But it was all meaningless, just white noise. All he could feel was darkness, and pain, and grief. It was Draco, he knew that. But… the wall between them was still up. Which meant whatever was happening to Draco right now, it was _bad_.

“I have to –” He lurched sideways as another magical volley shook the castle. _Go_. But where? The last time he’d seen Draco had been – _the infirmary_. Hours ago, visiting his friends. He’d left in a hurry then, afraid of the rejection in Draco’s eyes.

He barrelled down the stairs blindly, taking them three at a time. The infirmary was on the first floor, deep within the castle. He couldn’t feel Draco anymore. He took a flying leap at the bottom of the Grand Staircase, but the castle shook again, and he tripped. He rolled, slamming into another student going the other way.

“Sorry!” he gasped, disentangling himself hastily.

“Mr Potter!” McGonagall called. “We need everyone outside, reinforcing the –”

“Have you seen Draco?” Harry interrupted.

McGonagall frowned. “No. Isn’t he –?”

“Potter,” Pansy said, from behind him. “What’s wrong? Where’s Draco?”

He whirled on his heel. “Pansy! I don’t know. Do you?”

She stared at him. “But – your _bond_ –”

“He’s closed it,” Harry said.

Pansy went white. “ _W_ _hat_?”

Harry dodged around Flitwick, who was casting some kind of charm on a gargoyle, and made for the infirmary. He was aware of Pansy on his heels, but his terror was growing, worse with every step he took. Like something in him knew, even with the bond closed, that Draco wasn’t in the infirmary.

He pushed the door open anyway, and a quick scan of the room confirmed his worst fears.

 _Draco_ , he shouted through their bond. It bounced off the wall, but he kept trying, battering at it desperately. _Answer me!_ _Where are you?_

~*~

When Draco woke, his head was pounding, and he had the oddest sensation of floating and jolting up and down at the same time. He turned his head and vomited.

“ _Oi_ –!”

“KEEP GOING!”

Running footsteps, screams. Shouted spells. A sharp turn that made Draco’s head spin. A curse whizzed by his ear, singeing the top of it. He cried out in pain.

“ _Silencio_! Here – _here_ –” Madam Rosmerta’s voice, urgent.

“ _Finite_ ,” Greg said, and Draco thumped unceremoniously to the ground. It knocked the wind out of him. He tried to gasp, but nothing came out. He gaped silently, scrabbling at the ground with his fingers. He had to get up. He had to –

“Lie _still_ ,” Greg hissed, pressing Draco’s shoulders into the ground. “It’s okay. Just lie still!”

He forced himself to relax, to breathe. Madam Rosmerta was chanting somewhere above him. He squinted his eyes open. The light spiked into his eyes, and he grunted noiselessly. Madam Rosmerta was dripping blood onto the ground from her palm. Draco recognised the words she was chanting; a very old, powerful concealing charm.

Blood magic.

She finished the spell and slumped to the ground, looking exhausted. There was the faintest shimmer of light around their hiding space, like the subtle rainbow of dragon-scales. She glanced at him. “You’re awake. Thank Merlin. _Finite_.”

He felt the spell suppressing his voice lift. “You’re Dark,” he said, blankly. “I didn’t know.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Not something I advertise these days. But yes. That doesn’t mean I’m going to join You-Know-Who.”

“If I’d had a choice, I wouldn’t have, either,” Draco said.

She looked at him for a moment, and then nodded.

Draco glanced at his friends. Vince was sporting a nasty gash above one eye, and Greg had been hit with a Cross-Eyed Jinx. He was struggling to focus, and there was a splatter of vomit across his robes. “Oh. Sorry about that,” Draco said, wincing. He cast the counter to the Cross-Eyed Jinx.

Greg grunted. “Not your fault.” He cast his own _Scourgify_. “Those Dementors got you pretty good. We were lucky Madam Rosmerta was there. Neither of us can cast the Patronus Charm.”

“Unfortunately, it’s not one of my strengths, either,” Rosmerta said. “We attracted far too much attention getting you away from them.”

Draco pushed himself up to his knees, wincing. “The army is here for Hogwarts,” he said. “They don’t care about a few stray kids. If your charm holds, they won’t hunt us for long.”

“Except,” Greg said, “your uncle was one of them chasing us.”

Draco closed his eyes, swearing under his breath. He only had one uncle by blood; his father’s illegitimate half-brother, Tristan. And since Tristan lived in France, there could be only one man Goyle meant. Bella’s husband. “Rodolphus saw me?”

Greg nodded.

“Fuck,” Draco said.

“Problem?” Madam Rosmerta asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Draco said. “I didn’t just defect. I defected with my best friend, Pansy Parkinson. I was supposed to kill Dumbledore, and I didn’t. Together, Pansy and I provided the impetus for a mass defection of Slytherin House. We rescued my mother from Malfoy Manor. We rescued Harry, when he was captured by the Dark Lord.”

Madam Rosmerta stared at him. “Potter was captured? Why wasn’t this in the papers?”

“It was a covert mission, right after the Invasion,” Draco explained. “The Ministry is aware, of course, but they’re hardly going to advertise the fact that a bunch of kids saved the Boy Who Lived before they even knew You-Know-Who had him.”

“Well, blow me off the back of a broom,” Rosmerta muttered.

Vince was peering over the top of the wall. He ducked down again, face ashen. “Draco, they’re here,” he hissed. “Our _fathers_. Yours, too. They’re looking for us! What do we do?”

Draco’s heart almost stopped. He was a traitor. If they captured him, the very best he could hope for would be to be killed immediately. He had to stay hidden, stay safe, until he could get back inside the castle wards. On the other hand… his duty to his father had always taken precedence over everything else in his life. No matter what Lucius had done, he had a responsibility to get up, reveal himself, go to the man who had sired him.

“We can’t,” he gasped. “If we can get them alone somehow, we can talk to them, convince them to defect with us. But not now. Not in front of everyone. They’ll be forced to take us to _him_.”

“Vince!” called a voice. “Vincent, Gregory, come out now! Renounce Potter, and your lives will be spared!” There was a pause. “Vincent Anthony Crabbe –”

Vince jerked, making as if to stand.

Draco grabbed his arm. “No! Vince, we talked about this!”

Vince shook off his hand, scowling. “Don’t you get it, Draco? I told you. There _is_ no choice. We’re nothing without our families. Our kids will be _nothing_.”

“That’s not –”

But Vince was already standing, stepping outside the concealing charm. Draco and Greg both lunged for him, but they were too late. “Father! Father, we’re here!”


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone for your comments and kudos! xx

**CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE**

**THE PERFECT STORM**

_Dance till the stars come down from the rafters_  
 _Dance, dance, dance till you drop._  
~ W. H. Auden

Part One

Ron stood on the battlements overlooking the west lawn, his little mirror placed carefully on the parapet in front of him. The boundary wards were still holding, but volley after volley shook the castle. There had been no word from the Ministry; no sign that aid would be forthcoming from that quarter.

And Dumbledore was gone.

Even with everyone available lending their magic to the wards, Ron suspected they wouldn’t last the day. McGonagall and three Aurors were laying down runes in jagged rows across the lawn, preparing for a full-frontal assault. On the stone bridge, rows upon rows of armoured knights stood waiting to defend the school. Their polished metal gleamed in the sunlight.

It was such a nice afternoon, Ron thought. It seemed so wrong that Death should come for them all on a day like this.

He found his wand hand trembling, and swallowed, steadying it.

“All right?” Tonks said, quietly.

He glanced at her, and then down at his mirror again. The infirmary was probably the safest place in the castle right now. Blaise Zabini and Cho Chang were guarding the entrance, and Auror Proudfoot was inside. The greatest threat to Hermione’s life right now was the curse sucking her core dry. But Harry –

Tonks smiled at him, her eyes sad. He realised that she was possibly the only person in Hogwarts right now who could understand what he was feeling.

“He’ll be okay,” he said, impulsively.

Her smile faded. She knew as well as he did that Remus was probably lost to them forever. “So will Hermione,” she said. “We have to hope, don’t we?”

Ron nodded grimly. It was the only way any of them would get through this. Except that Harry wasn’t planning on making it through, was he? All of his hope had been in Malfoy, and without him, Harry was lost. And Ron didn’t know how to fix it. Hermione would know, he thought helplessly. What he wouldn’t give for another vial of Felix Felicis right now. Just a sip of liquid luck, to give them a chance.

His mind caught on a memory. _Similar to Felix Felicis…_ Slughorn’s potions class. Harry, using the Half-Blood Prince’s textbook. What was it he’d said? _Provides clarity and resolution in a difficult situation… the perfect outcome…_

“I have to go!” he gasped.

Tonks gave him a startled look. On his other side, Ernie Macmillan made a noise of protest.

“I’m sorry,” Ron said. He could almost see the strain on their faces increase as he lowered his wand. “I’m sorry. It’s Harry.” A plan was already coalescing in his mind. “I have to find Malfoy.”

~*~

The Atrium was silent but for the sound of Lord Voldemort’s voice. The Death Eaters were hanging on his every word, eager to be singled out for a task.

“Lorne and Barnaby, you will oversee disposal of the bodies,” he said. “Sandringham, the rebuilding process. You may choose your assistants. I want the Ministry operational by tomorrow morning. Rowle, you wiIl oversee our change in government. I’m sure our new Acting Minister for Magic will be _very_ helpful in that regard.” He turned his cold, gleaming smile on Pius Thicknesse.

Pius smiled vacantly, nodding. There was a ripple of ugly laughter through the room. The man had been Imperiused; that much was obvious. Just a puppet under the Dark Lord’s control, Elphias thought, in horror. Was this to be the future of the wizarding world?

“A new Wizengamot will need to be formed, of course,” Voldemort continued. “Only those who proved themselves worthy in battle today will be considered. Those who did _not_ –” his gaze scanned the room, and several Death Eaters flinched, “will have opportunity to redeem themselves at Hogwarts.”

A loud cheer went up.

“Morgana have mercy,” Hestia breathed.

Elphias hushed her again. It looked like Voldemort would be taking the majority of his men with him when he left, and soon. All of their wands had been confiscated, but he only needed one to save Arthur’s life. The man was pale and sweating, with the kind of stillness that Elphias recognised as too close to death. If he could just get his hands on a wand, he knew he could stop the bleeding. He had always rather fancied he might have been a good Healer, if his father hadn’t already mapped out his political career before he was out of leading strings.

“Madam Umbridge,” Voldemort said.

Dolores Umbridge stepped over a body, a lacy pink handkerchief pressed delicately to her nose. She curtsied. “My Lord?”

Hestia made what could only be described as a _growl_.

Elphias startled. “Calm yourself, my dear,” he murmured. Of course, he echoed the sentiment. Dolores had betrayed them all. After that debacle at Hogwarts two years ago, she’d been extremely lucky to get her job back. Senior Undersecretary to the Minister for Magic was a privileged position. And then she’d turned her wand on the Minister, on _innocents_ , the Killing Curse on her lips.

But this was not the time to draw attention to them.

“You have acquitted yourself very well this morning, Madam,” Voldemort said. “I have decided to honour you with this task: to root out those so-called ‘Muggleborns’ among us. No doubt they have stolen the wands they’re using. Take them back. It will be an onerous task, registering every witch and wizard in Britain, but I have every confidence in you. And as a reward for your loyalty, I will grant you leave to enjoy the fruits of your efforts with Mr Scrimgeour here. Until his death, of course, at the time of my choosing.”

Umbridge looked ecstatic. “Thank you, my lord!” she simpered. “You are magnanimous indeed!”

“Hestia, child,” Elphias said, very quietly, eyeing the closest Death Eater. He could see the tips of several confiscated wands poking out of his pocket. “See those wands?”

She followed his gaze, her face lighting up. “I can get them!” she whispered.

“Just one,” Elphias murmured, gesturing at Arthur surreptitiously. “More will draw too much attention.”

Hestia shook her head. “We have to _fight_ ,” she insisted. “He’s going after Hogwarts. _Children_. We have to stop him!”

Elphias stared at her. “What?” There was no way they could fight so many. It was suicide.

But Hestia’s eyes were already closed, a frown line between her brows. Before Elphias could stop her, she hissed, “ _Accio wands_.” The wands ripped out of the Death Eater’s pocket. “Come on!” she shouted, leaping to her feet. She tossed him a wand, and Elphias caught it instinctively. She threw the others at Percy Weasley, Bertha the security witch, Julie Barnes, and Alfred Dippet.

They all fumbled the wands, mouths falling open in shock.

The Death Eaters stared.

Hestia threw some kind of powder at the floor. It exploded, and a ring of smoke rose around them. The closest Death Eaters screamed, scrabbling at their eyes.

“Kill them!” Voldemort roared.

“Get up!” Hestia shouted. “ _Expelliarmus_! Come on! We need more wands!” The ring of smoke was already dispersing. “ _Protego_! _Protego Totalum_!”

Percy Weasley was already scrambling to his feet, face white with fear but determined. The others followed, even those without wands. None of them were Aurors or Hit Wizards. Elphias doubted any of them had fought a real battle in their lives. He wavered, clutching his stolen wand. He was one hundred and sixty years old. So many of his generation had died in the last two wars. He had survived death by the skin of his teeth, multiple times. But he was still young, still had so much life to live. Did he really want to die this way?

But then he saw young Hestia’s face, her eyes blazing – just a child herself – and he thought: _how else?_ He threw a clotting spell Arthur’s way. Then he stood, and fought.

~*~

Harry bent over, hand braced against the statue of Gregory the Smarmy, gasping for breath. Hermione’s seals were all untouched. This was the last. The boundary wards had not been breached, and no one had entered through the secret passages. Which meant, as incomprehensible as it seemed, that Draco was _outside_ the grounds.

Fear was pounding through his veins; not all of it his own. Draco was in serious danger. But how? And more importantly, where?

 _Where are you?_ he pleaded desperately. _Let me in, let me help_!

Draco didn’t reply, exactly, but there was a fleeting sense of acknowledgement. Harry fought to grab hold of it – to –

“Potter!” Harry flinched, and the tenuous connection was gone. _Pansy_. Every single _fucking_ time she called his name – “He’s in Hogsmeade!” she cried, skidding to a stop beside him. “Blaise says he was going to visit The Three Broomsticks. He took Vince and Greg with him. He’s trapped behind enemy lines!”

“He’s been captured,” Harry said.

Pansy sucked in a breath. “No,” she breathed. “Oh _no_. They’ll kill him.”

“Why the fuck is he even out there?” Harry demanded. “What, he wanted a butterbeer? What the fuck was he _thinking_?”

“Harry!”

He whirled. Ron was running towards them, panic written all over his face. He held up his wrist, where a small bracelet was blinking. “Hermione’s alarm just went off! They’re coming through the fourth floor passage! We have to –”

“Draco’s been captured,” Pansy interrupted.

Ron paused. He glanced at Harry. “Don’t suppose you have that Time-Turner on you, do you?” he asked.

Harry frowned. “No. Why?”

“Never mind.” He grabbed Harry’s arm, pulling him in the direction of the stairs. “The Death Eaters just breached Hermione’s seal. They’re in the tunnel. If they get into the castle, they can dismantle the boundary wards from the inside. We have to stop them.”

“How?” Harry asked. “If Hermione’s seals didn’t work –”

“They worked,” Ron told him. “Only one’s been breached so far. That’s something. And it would have had to be someone _powerful_ to dismantle that seal.”

“Wait!” Pansy cried. “You can’t – what about Draco?”

“Harry,” Ron insisted, tugging at his arm. “Hermione’s given us a chance here. We have to go!”

“I know,” Harry said. “I know, but –” He closed his eyes, trying to concentrate. Draco’s fear had subsided a little, replaced with – nothing. No. Not nothing. He was _numb_. What did that mean? “Fuck,” he said. “Pansy, I need him safe as much as you do, but Ron’s right. We have to do this first. Come with us, please. We could use your help.”

“Merlin’s fucking balls,” Pansy swore. “If he’s hurt –”

“He’s not,” Harry assured her. Not yet.

She stared at him. “As _soon_ as we drive them back, we figure out a way to get him back.”

Harry nodded. He held out a hand as the staircase began to turn, and she took it, hopping lightly up onto the first step.

“I know the fourth floor passage,” she said. “The tunnel is only wide enough for one at a time, and the entrance into Hogwarts is almost entirely blocked by rubble. Without magic, only a child could wriggle through that gap. We have the advantage. If we can find a way to bring that rubble down on them, bury them –”

“A booby-trap,” Ron agreed. “That could work. It might kill them, though.”

“This is war, Weasley,” Pansy said. “It’s us or them.”

Harry looked between them. He wanted to protest, but honestly, he couldn’t think of a better plan. The reality of what they were about to do settled on his shoulders, heavy and cold.

The Infinity Mirror was down a dimly-lit hallway, opposite an old tapestry of itself.

“Behind the tapestry,” Pansy prompted.

Harry pushed it aside carefully, peering into the small space.

Ron grimaced. “Bloody hell. That’s the gap they squeezed through? I can’t believe even a first-year could have gotten through there.”

“I don’t know,” Harry said. “We got into some pretty tight spots as first years, remember?”

“Seamus and I cast _Interstringo_ on ourselves,” Pansy told them. “But I doubt they’ll waste time with that. They’ll try brute force first, punching their way through. If we embed a trigger in the wards to collapse the rest of the rubble, it should bury anyone in the immediate vicinity, and make the way completely impassable for the rest.”

“ _Succido_?” Ron suggested, after a moment’s thought.

“With a trigger,” Harry reminded him.

“ _Incutio succido lapis_ ,” Pansy said.

“Right,” Ron said. He pushed Harry gently out of the way. “Let me.”

Harry stood back, watching Ron cast.

“I’m sorry, Potter,” Pansy murmured. Harry glanced at her questioningly. “For the party. It shouldn’t have happened that way.”

Harry sighed. “I’m sorry, too.”

“We fucked up,” Pansy said, unhappily. “You were meant to tell him the truth yourself. It was all so clear from that point. Your only chance now is to convince him to open the bond again.”

Harry blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“ _Quiet_ ,” Ron hissed. “We’ll give the whole thing away if they hear us.”

Harry waved him off. “I’m not convincing him of anything!” he said, stubbornly. “He’s free now.”

Pansy’s mouth thinned. “This isn’t his heart we’re talking about, Potter. This is his _life_. He needs to forgive you, to open the bond again, or he will die with you.”

Harry froze. “ _What_?”

“I saw it in the Mirror,” she said. “This path you’re on now, where you chose to wait, and let someone else tell him –”

Harry bristled. “I didn’t _let_ –”

“I’m not blaming you, Potter,” she interrupted. “But the Mirror doesn’t lie. You had a chance, to earn his forgiveness the easy way. That’s not an option anymore, but you _must_ fix what has been broken between you. There are so many ways this could go, so many branches, and what I saw – didn’t always make sense. But I know I saw him die. Too many times, too many ways. And I know your bond, united and whole, is the only way to save him. That is the choice you both must make.”

“You’re right, that doesn’t make any sense,” Harry snapped.

“ _Shh_!” Ron said. “Listen!”

Harry paused. The sound of footsteps drifted up the passageway.

~*~

Molly’s team had found several survivors on the upper levels of the Ministry; some grieviously injured, others in shock. Jenkins had Portkeyed them to St Mungo’s before returning. Only one had been willing and able to join the fight; Arthur Weasley’s assistant, who had managed to be overlooked by hiding in their tiny, cupboard-sized office.

Dumbledore, Alastor and Dawlish met them on the stairs. The Atrium was guarded, but Alastor knew of a secret passage created by the Aurors during the last war.

“We should split up,” he said. “Dawlish, go with the others. There’s a service entrance behind Munchies. We have a better chance taking them in a crossfire.” He cast _Tempus et Numerare_ , and Dawlish mirrored him. “Go, go!”

Dumbledore followed Alastor down the passage. The distinctive sound of battle made him pause, and then increase his pace. A one-way window charm showed them the Atrium. The few survivors were _fighting_ , despite being hopelessly outnumbered. More than half the Death Eaters in the room were arrayed against them, the rest jeering from a safe distance.

“Merlin’s saggy balls,” Alastor breathed.

Dumbledore glanced at the countdown. They’d given Dawlish a minute exactly to get into position.

00:32. 00:31.

Bertha fell with a scream. A young wizard grabbed up her wand, taking her place.

Voldemort chortled, clapping slowly.

00:28. 00:27.

Percy Weasley was hit with a flash of green. He went down silently, a look of shock on his young face. Only Hestia, Elphias and the young wizard were still standing, now. Hestia was an Unspeakable, and Elphias had fought in more battles than Dumbledore himself, but they would not survive this one.

Dumbledore met Alastor’s eyes. His face tightened, but he nodded in agreement. They couldn’t wait.

00:23.

Alastor opened the door. Dumbledore shot a Stunning spell at the Death Eater closest to them. Alastor leapt over him, shooting off spells with frightening speed and accuracy; ruthlessly cutting down anyone too slow to raise a shield.

The Atrium erupted in panicked shouts.

Voldemort turned.

“ _Confractus Lapis_ ,” Dumbledore murmured, wand hidden in his sleeve. The floor began to ripple and crack under his feet. He cast a simple Stabilising Charm to keep his balance.

“Albus Dumbledore,” Voldemort said, raising his voice over the din.

Dumbledore fancied he saw that old, familiar fear in the dark eyes. He ignored the scrambling Death Eaters between them. “Tom,” he greeted.

Predictably, Voldemort scowled. There were several gasps from the nearest Death Eaters. “ _Avada Kedavra_!”

Dumbledore whirled aside. Only a fraction of an inch closer, and it would have hit him. _Pity_ , he thought, distantly. His spell was spreading, breaking apart the floor. Great slabs of stone flung Death Eaters off-balance, sending their spells wild. With a snarl, Voldemort cast the Hummingbird Charm, rising two feet above the ground. It was a difficult spell, requiring focus and power to maintain. It meant both non-verbal magic and the Unforgivables would be beyond his reach, which levelled the playing field somewhat.

Alastor was a whirlwind off to one side, drawing a good number of the Death Eaters away from Hestia and Elphias. The young wizard was already down.

Dumbledore concentrated on defence, stepping back slowly but surely, manoeuvring Voldemort towards the far end of the Atrium.

00:03. 00:02.

Dawlish and his team burst out from the little café, overwhelming the Death Eaters surrounding Hestia and Elphias in seconds. The commotion distracted Voldemort.

 _Stupefy_ , Dumbledore thought.

But a voice shouted, “ _Protego Totalum_!”

Dumbledore’s spell bounced harmlessly off the shield. Madam Umbridge’s shield. He raised one around himself immediately, guarding against the new threat. Apparently Umbridge had hidden in a fireplace when the fighting broke out again. Dumbledore had manoeuvred himself right into her line of fire.

“ _Defodio_!” Voldemort snarled. “ _Sectumsempra_! _Ut Sanguinis_!”

Dumbledore didn’t have time to dodge. _Defodio_ could not be deflected or shielded against. The counter-spell required three twists of his wand. He managed it, but at the cost of letting the other two hit him. A line of fire opened up across his chest. He fell to one knee. How ironic, that it should be a spell invented by Severus Snape that ultimately killed him.

Voldemort laughed, flying towards him.

“ _Impedimenta_!” Dumbledore cried. Voldemort barely paused. “ _Lumos Solem_!” The beam of light shot straight into Voldemort’s eyes, blinding him.

“ _Umbra Oculis_ ,” Voldemort snapped, shading his eyes. “I’m curious, Dumbledore,” he said, his voice not quite a gloat. He wasn’t sure, Dumbledore thought. Still that blustering, scared child at his core, terrified that he wasn’t good enough. “Your duelling technique seems somewhat lacking today.”

“ _Finite_ ,” Dumbledore murmured. The beam of light shut off. “ _Vulnera Sanetur_ ,” he chanted three times, with the last of his strength. It was a powerful healing spell, but he was too weak for it, now. His wound kept bleeding.

~*~

An alarm blared over Anthony Goldstein’s bed.

“Proudfoot, take over here,” Madam Pomfrey called, hurrying to Narcissa’s side. She took in the data hovering over Anthony’s bed at a glance, waving her wand in a diagnostic spell. “Traumatic pneumothorax,” she said, briskly. “Can you manage his airway?”

“Yes,” Narcissa said. She’d had a great deal of practice at it over the past twenty-four hours. She held it steady, watching as Madam Pomfrey sedated the boy and aspirated the air from his lung.

Time was ticking away. Proudfoot was busy with the restoration spell on Miss Granger, Reed was providing sedation and pain management for a young girl suffering the effects of a Vomiting Curse variant, and little Dennis Creevy had his hands full just administering the regular round of potions. He was working as fast as he could, but Narcissa knew several were already overdue.

Millicent Bulstrode was also overdue for her regular clotting and sealing spells, to prevent the internal bleeding from starting again. What they really needed was four doses of Hewson’s Potion to restart the coagulation cascade in her blood, but Madam Pomfrey’s request to St Mungo’s had been rejected. There just wasn’t enough to go around.

The stasis charm on Astoria Greengrass needed renewing in less than five minutes. Even so, Narcissa knew from Poppy's desperate plea to St Mungo's, several minutes ago, that she wouldn’t live much longer. St Mungo's had refused her.

The young boy in the bed next to Anthony’s began to whimper.

Narcissa wracked her mind for his name. She knew he’d been hit with a Bone-Crushing Curse, painful and almost impossible to treat while the patient was sedated. She knew his mother hadn’t come; she was a single mother, and couldn’t leave her other children. But his name… “Sweetheart,” she said. He didn’t look at her. “Sweetheart,” she tried again.

“Hurts,” he cried.

“I know, honey, just –”

“The curse on Miss Granger is speeding up again,” Proudfoot called.

“He’s crashing!” Pomfrey said tersely, a split second before the alarms above Anthony’s bed began blaring. “Reed, we have respiratory failure! Narcissa, _Positivum Spiramento_! Two counterclockwise circles and a thrust.”

Narcissa’s hand shook as she followed the mediwitch’s instructions. A pale blue light streamed from her wand. Pomfrey was already starting compressions. Reed ran over to help. Quick, precise wand movements, barely a word spoken between them. Just glances and nods and eyes constantly examining Anthony’s face or the data above his head.

They didn’t speak a word when the data stopped scrolling.

Reed’s hands trembled a little, but he turned away, already returning to his other patient.

A lump formed in Narcissa’s throat. She’d seen men die, of course; some horribly. Her own father had died of the Evisceration Curse in the last war. Voldemort had tortured several Muggles to death, just on a whim, in her home. But not _children_. Not children her _son’s_ age. “Isn’t there –?”

Madam Pomfrey shook her head. “I’m afraid not even St Mungo’s could have saved him.” There was a glint of tears in her eyes, but she cleared her throat, and said, “Help Proudfoot with Hermione. I’ll see to Bobby.”

Narcissa glanced at the whimpering boy next to them, and then down at Anthony. Pomfrey was closing his eyes. “Yes, of course,” she said.

~*~

It was dark and cold in the tunnel. Draco stumbled. Rough hands were on him immediately, pushing him upright, forcing him to keep moving. “Stop,” he muttered. “ _Stop it_.”

The hands grasped his shoulders, wrenching him around. “Pull yourself together!” Snape snapped. “This is _war_ , Draco. Loved ones die, enemies deceive us, friends betray us. Crabbe made his choice. There’s nothing you could have done.”

“That’s not true,” Draco said, roused. “I –” 

Snape shook him. “This is not the _time_ , foolish boy! Hogwarts is under attack! If you want to live, you must focus!” 

“Severus Snape,” Madam Rosmerta said, in the tone she used when her customers were becoming too rowdy for her liking. Draco straightened instinctively, as did Snape. “Take your hands off him right now. We are grateful for what you did. If you hadn’t turned up when you did, I’d be dead, and Merlin knows where the boys would be. But they’re in shock. Can’t you see that?”

Snape huffed. “We don’t have time to mollycoddle them, Rosmerta,” he said. But he let go, stepping back.

Draco looked around. Greg was staring vacantly at the ground, as if he hadn’t even registered their unexpected stop. “Greg,” he said. “We’ll get him back. I promise.”

Greg lifted his head to meet Draco’s eyes. He said nothing.

“We should keep moving,” Rosmerta said, gently. “I think we’re almost there.” 

Draco looked up the tunnel. They were on a steep slope upwards now, which probably meant they were under Hogwarts. He was just grateful Harry had told him about the passage behind The Three Broomsticks. Even with Snape’s timely arrival, they would have had nowhere to escape to if he hadn’t remembered where the entrance was.

Speaking of…

He frowned, finally registering the way Harry was battering at the wall between them. _I’m okay_ , he said, letting it down just a little. _I’m safe._ He wasn’t surprised at the way Harry leapt all over him through the bond; just waited it out with gritted teeth. But that was where his tolerance ended. He refused to be drawn back into Potter’s web of lies.

 _Wait_! Harry cried, before he could close it again.

“It appears there has been a cave-in here, in the past,” Snape said, from up ahead. “We’ll have to –” 

_Don’t move!_

Suddenly there was noise and shouting from the other side of the rocks. Snape froze, his wand pointed at the tiny gap in the rubble. 

“It’s okay,” Draco said. “It’s just Harry. He says not to touch anything for a minute.”

Snape glanced over his shoulder at him with raised eyebrows.

Draco flinched. “Potter, I mean,” he said. Snape’s eyebrows rose further, and Draco cursed himself inwardly. Of course that wasn’t what Snape meant. He had no idea about their messy breakup, or the reason for it. Pansy would never have confided her plan in him. Except… Draco eyed him in sudden suspicion. He’d warned Draco to be careful, hadn’t he? Just like Pansy had. “Did you know?” he demanded. “That he was never in love with me?” 

Snape stared at him. “Potter’s not in love with you?” 

“Well, he is _now_ ,” Draco said, scowling. “But he lied to me for Salazar knows how long –” 

“Don’t be childish, Mr Malfoy,” Snape said, tucking his wand away. “You were well aware that his motives were in question. You just ignored the possibility that those motives might necessitate lying to you about his feelings for you.”

Draco stared at him incredulously. “Are you saying it’s _my_ fault?”

“I’m saying you knew the risks, and chose to ignore them,” Snape said. “And in doing so, you saved your mother, saved yourself, and were lucky enough to find a love most people only dream about. You’re a fool if you let that go. Would that _I_ –”

 _“It’s safe now_ ,” Harry’s voice echoed into the passage. Snape cut himself off. “ _You can come on through.”_

“Sir?” Draco said, cautiously. “You were in –?”

“Once, a long time ago,” Snape said, his tone brittle. “I let her go. I didn’t fight for her. And I lost her. It is my one true regret. As much as I abhor Potter, what you have with him,” his mouth twisted, “is special. Rare. A heart-bond –”

“Soul-bond,” Draco corrected him.

Snape frowned, examining his face. Then he sighed. “Dumbledore didn’t tell you. Why does that not surprise me?”

“What, that it’s a heart-bond?” Draco scoffed. “You’re joking, right?”

Snape shook his head slowly.

Rosmerta tapped him on the shoulder. “Honey, we’re waiting. Your Harry said we can go through.”

“He’s not my Harry,” Draco muttered. But he waved for Snape to go ahead, wondering if insanity was contagious, and who in the world could possibly have been special enough to capture the Half-Blood Prince’s heart.

~*~

For a minute or so, Hestia really thought they might win. How could they not, with Mad-Eye Moody and Albus Dumbledore as reinforcements? She found herself alongside Dawlish and Fleur Delacour, and it gave her a second wind; the strength to keep fighting.

A _Crepitus_ got through their defences, exploding right in the middle of the group. She was flung off her feet. Dazed, she staggered up. Her ears were ringing. A girl in Auror robes was cut down right in front of her.

“Eliza!” someone screamed.

Hestia shot off a Stunner automatically. She couldn’t hear anything. She tripped over a body, and fell. A fractured slab of stone sliced through her knee. She cried out in pain, even as movement caught her eye. She looked up in time to see Voldemort’s ugly black statue morph into a dozen giant snakes of stone. They arced high up into the air, the ends forming dangerous thick spikes. Hestia rolled, not a moment too soon. The snakes slammed into the floor, one after another.

They were forming a circle of pillars.

“ _Bombarda!_ ” she shouted. The spell absorbed into the stone with a shimmer. The last pillar slammed down, narrowly missing Bill Weasley. The force of it slammed him back into some kind of ward on the opposite side of the circle. No, not a circle. It was a _cage_.

Panicked, Hestia looked around. She was alone. Elphias was down. Moody was down. Everyone else was trapped in the cage.

Voldemort was standing over Dumbledore’s body, smirking.

Her mind went blank. Her only thought was survival. She threw up the strongest _Protego_ she could, and ran, limping. The cage was blocking magic somehow. She had to put it between her and the army.

“Get her!”

A Death Eater loomed in front of her. She disarmed him. Her shield fell. She dived to the floor. Green light flashed above her. She scrambled up to hands and knees. Her knee threatened to give out, but she lurched into a crab-run, as fast as she could. A group of masked Death Eaters were crowded around the next pillar. Someone was screaming. Black robes. Not one of theirs.

“ _Telam ligo_ ,” she muttered. Strings of sticky webbing shot out of her wand.

The Death Eaters were slow to react, distracted by their man down The web tangled them up, sticking them together, making it worse the more they struggled. They began to shout, furious. Others ran to help. It gave her an idea. There was an experimental spell one of her colleagues had been developing. The Berserker Curse, he’d named it. If she could just remember the wand movement –

“ _Praefuro_ ,” she whispered.

It hit a large, broad-shouldered Death Eater. He stilled for a moment. Hestia began to doubt… but then he went _mad_. Roaring, he turned on his fellow Death Eaters. He didn’t use his wand. Instead, he ripped himself free of the web with terrifying strength, and snapped the nearest wizard’s neck with his bare hands.

Hestia gasped.

The other Death Eaters began to scream. Shooting spells at him did little to help. Part of the Beserker Curse made the victim almost impervious to attack. She cast it again, and again.

“Go!” Dawlish hissed, from the other side of the cage. She startled badly, stifling a shriek. “Get to the Minister,” he said. “Use the emergency beacon. The world needs to know the Ministry has fallen. Hogwarts needs to know they’re next.”

Horrified, Hestia protested, “I can get you out –”

“No,” Bill interrupted. “You-Know-Who used blood magic.” He was holding himself upright with obvious difficulty, but he’d managed to draw a revealing rune on the nearest pillar. Behind him, Molly was waving her wand desperately over Fleur, tears running down her face. Arthur was still out cold; maybe dead. Their son Percy was undoubtedly dead. “It’s over. _Go_.”

She went. Dumbledore had been very clear. The Order existed to protect Harry Potter at all costs. Hogwarts had to be prepared. As long as Potter was alive, the wizarding world still had hope, but if he died…

She cast a Notice-Me-Not Charm on herself. The charm was usually useless against the enemy in the hypervigilance of battle, but with the beserkers causing chaos, no one would be looking for her. She gave them a wide berth, and no one moved to stop her.

Scrimgeour had no guards; he was trussed up and barely conscious. He moaned when she touched him. “Sorry,” she murmured, searching quickly through his robes. “I’m so sorry, sir –”

Her hand closed on the beacon.

Something grabbed her hair, dragging her up. She screamed. “Well, well,” Yaxley sneered in her face. “What do we have here?”

Hestia struggled against his hold, but it was no good. “ _Relashio_!” she cried. Yaxley was forced back several paces. She activated the beacon with a snap. “The Ministry has fallen!” she shouted. “The best efforts of the Order to stop the attack have failed. Dumbledore –”

The beacon was snatched out of her hand. Her head exploded with pain.

~*~

The light was almost blinding after the darkness of the tunnel. Draco straightened up, blinking. Two wands dug into his throat almost instantly. Even knowing Harry wouldn’t let anyone hurt him, he flinched back. A body knocked him into Madam Rosmerta.

“ _Draco_!”

The scent of jasmine filled his nose. He relaxed. “Pansy. All right?” She didn’t reply, but the hitch in her breathing told him everything he needed to know. He gave her a quick squeeze. “I’m fine,” he assured her. “I promise.”

Greg peered out from behind Madam Rosmerta. “The fuck is going on,” he grunted. “We’re on _your_ fucking side.”

“So what?” Ron demanded, belligerently. “You want us to take _your_ word for it? When you turn up with _Snape_?”

“Professor Snape is on our side,” Draco said. “We were captured, in Hogsmeade. He rescued us from my – the Death Eaters.”

“Your father?” Harry said, his eyes wide.

“You _left_ him?” Pansy asked, at the same time.

“Yes,” Rosmerta said. “Severus saved us all. And Draco left his father willingly. Hard as it may be to believe, we are all on the same side here. Lower your wands.”

Harry started to obey, but Ron flung out a hand to stop him. “Hang on! Snape tried to _kill_ Dumbledore, remember? Even if it was on Dumbledore’s orders, you said yourself that a Death Eater would never pass up that kind of opportunity.”

“Indeed,” Snape said, impatiently. “And yet I did so, again, a mere two hours ago. I am under an Unbreakable Vow to carry out Draco’s task, should he fail to do so. I was ordered by the Dark Lord to lay in wait for Dumbledore in the Ministry. He was alone. Nothing prevented me from trying again, and yet I did not. I have no intention of carrying out the final part of my vow, and the magic knows that now. I will be dead by day’s end.”

Draco felt the breath leave his body. “ _No_.”

Snape glanced at him, his eyes softening. “I do not regret it, Draco. You do not deserve to suffer for your father’s mistakes.”

“Professor,” Draco said, his throat aching. He knew the man would not appreciate tears being shed on his behalf, but he couldn’t bear the idea of being the cause of his death. “Unbreakable Vows can be reversed.”

“What?” Harry said. “I thought they were unbreakable. That’s why they’re _called_ –”

“Unbreakable Vows, yes, thank you, Mr Potter,” Snape sneered. “Reversing them is certainly possible, but it requires all three participants to be in agreement. And it risks not only my life, but the one who bound me. Your mother, Draco. I could not allow that, even if somehow Bellatrix’s aid could be coerced.”

“My mother would take the risk,” Draco said, firmly. A frisson of horror went down his spine. “Oh Merlin, my _mother_ –”

“She’s in the infirmary,” Pansy said, quickly. “It’s about as deep inside the castle as it’s possible to be.”

“No,” Draco said. This couldn’t be happening. Not after everything they’d suffered to get her to safety. “No, she was supposed to take a Portkey to France –” Harry reached out to him, and Draco wrenched himself backwards. “Don’t!” he spat. “Don’t you fucking _dare_!”

Harry’s face fell. He took a step back.

Draco looked at Snape. “My mother will help us,” he decided. “We’ll find Aunt Bella, and force her to help, too. And in return –”

“You have my word,” Snape said. “Your mother will not come to harm during this battle.”

“Slytherins,” Ron muttered. Snape scowled at him, and he quailed.

“Let’s go,” Draco said. He was vaguely aware of Greg moving to his side, but suddenly his feet were rooted to the floor. The Wild Magic was screaming at him. Something – something was wrong. Hogwarts itself was crying out. Ancient magic rooted deep in the earth, _screaming_ in pain. “No,” he breathed, heart in his throat. “Merlin, _n_ _o_. They’ve found the lodestones.”


	43. Chapter 43

**CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE**

**THE PERFECT STORM**

Part Two

The castle was eerily silent. The bombardment against the boundary wards had stopped. All Harry could hear was their footsteps, ringing on the stone floor.

Ron, Pansy and Madam Rosmerta were headed to the west lawn. He planned to join them there, but not before making sure the infirmary was safe. If Snape betrayed them again, everyone in there was as good as dead.

They made it to the stairs before they were stopped by a silver mist rushing towards them. Harry lurched in front of Draco instinctively, but it didn’t attack them. Instead, it coalesced into a picture; a close-up of a young woman’s face, eyes wide with fear, hair wild around her face. It took a moment for Harry to recognise her. Hestia Jones. She was usually so neatly put-together.

“ _The Ministry has fallen!_ ” she cried. “ _The best efforts of the Order to stop the attack have failed!_ _Dumbledore_ –”

The picture jerked, as if someone had ripped it from her hands. Then it vanished. In the silence, Harry fancied he could hear the distant roar of triumphant voices.

“She was only twenty-five,” Snape said.

Harry looked at him, and then Draco. “What was that?”

“Emergency beacon,” Draco explained, grimly. “Designed for only the most terrible of calamities. It records a message, and then sends it to every witch and wizard in the country, all at once. The Minister is supposed to keep it on his person at all times. He must have given it to her.”

“Or he’s dead, too,” Snape said.

Harry flinched at the implication. “You think Dumbledore –?”

“His connection to Hogwarts as its Headmaster has broken,” Draco said. “The lodestones are hidden by ancient blood magic. The Headmaster is the lynchpin, linked to the previous Headmaster; an unbroken line all the way back to the Founders. Whatever’s happened to him, he didn’t transfer the guardianship to Professor McGonagall. It’s the only way the lodestones could have been left exposed. He is likely dead, or nearly.”

Harry sucked in a breath. He didn’t know much about lodestones; just that they were necessary to bind the most powerful wards to a geographic location. “Then the boundary wards –”

“Will come down the moment the last lodestone is destroyed,” Draco said.

“Destroyed?” Harry echoed. “Can lodestones _be_ –?”

“Of course they can,” Snape said, scathingly. “And if you’d ever taken anything more challenging than Charms, you’d know that.”

Harry scowled. “That’s not fucking _helping_ –” He cut himself off. Draco had collapsed to his knees. “Draco?” he cried, alarmed, but Snape was already at his side, and Goyle blocked his path. Harry glared at them both. “Draco!”

“I’m fine,” Draco said. Snape had a hand under his elbow, steadying him.

“You don’t look fine,” Harry countered.

Draco’s face was lined with pain, but he shook his head. “It's the lodestones. They’ve done it already. One down. Six to go.”

“Come on,” Snape said, urging him up. “No time to waste.”

Harry followed them numbly.

They made it three staircases before Draco was driven to his knees again, his whole body shaking. “Two,” he gasped out.

~*~

Ron parted ways with Rosmerta and Pansy at the Quidditch pitch, just after the emergency beacon reached them. The boundary wards were flickering madly. Ron feared this was their only chance. Apparently there was no one coming to help; not even Dumbledore. He had to get this right.

“I’ll catch up with you,” he told them, grabbing an old Nimbus from the broomshed.

“Be careful,” Rosmerta said.

Ron nodded, jumping on his broom. Malfoy’s Time-Turner was burning a hole in his pocket. He didn’t feel guilty for stealing it with a sneaky, well-timed Switching Spell. Given Malfoy’s animosity towards Harry right now, he doubted the Slytherin would have just handed it over.

But what he was going to use it for…

He landed by the cherry blossom trees, almost falling in his haste.

Time-Turners were designed for travel back in time. Forward travel had been attempted, of course, but it had been deemed far too unpredictable and dangerous. He could die, or kill everyone within a fifty mile radius, or do damage to time itself. He wasn’t a magical theorist. He didn’t have Hermione’s brains. And even if he did, there was no time to work out the complex Arithmancy sums to make this reliable or safe.

“Winging it it is, then,” he muttered. “Merlin help us all.”

He cast a protective bubble around the cluster of trees; one he’d seen Bill use on occasion. Curse-Breakers used it to contain potentially dangerous artifacts before going to work.

Then the Reversal Jinx, on the Time-Turner itself. It was a deceptively simple spell, but very powerful. He’d accidentally used it on a Prewett family heirloom, once. His mum had just about murdered him when her great-grandmother’s prized self-knitting needles started independently unravelling all of her Christmas jumpers.

Still, he was nervous. He wasn’t just taking the Time-Turner into the future. He was going three _days_ into the future.

The Time-Turner shuddered on its chain, and Ron held his breath.

Nothing else happened.

He breathed out. “Okay.” So far, so good. “Here goes nothing.”

He spun the Time-Turner, one full turn for each hour. The world outside his bubble jerked and then began to race by, too fast to see anything but a blur of colour and shapes. Part of him wanted to slow down; to see what was happening five hours from now… ten hours… a day. But if the Death Eaters caught him out here, alone and vulnerable –

He couldn’t risk it.

Sixty-eight turns later, he stopped.

The world stilled, coming back into focus. Ron swallowed, his mouth dry. Tuesday morning. The battle would be long over by now, surely. Which meant one side or the other had won, and yet he couldn’t see any evidence of a battle at all. The castle and grounds looked the same as ever.

He turned in a circle, and then just about leapt out of his skin. “ _Bloody hell_!”

It was him. No, not him. Future-him? Just – standing here, outside the bubble, watching him.

Waiting for him, he realised.

Future-him raised a hand to wave, and Ron waved back, struck by how bizarre this was. Future-him looked – different, somehow. Maybe because he was three days older? He’d _survived_ , Ron thought, with a slow, swelling sense of relief. He’d survived. Whether they’d won or lost, he was _here_ , and he’d survived.

But future-him looked grey, tired. And his eyes – his eyes –

He’d survived, Ron thought, in slow, dawning horror, but what about Hermione? Harry? His family?

He opened his mouth. Future-him shook his head, and Ron spun towards the castle, suddenly desperate to see, to know. But Future-him took a step sideways, back into his line of sight. “Please!” Ron blurted. “ _Please_ , I have to –”

Future-him just shook his head again. He pointed to the trees, his lips pressed together, a thin, solemn line.

Ron dashed a hand across his eyes. Okay. Okay. He didn’t like it, but he understood. Knowledge of the past could have devastating effects on the timeline. If he were to use that knowledge when he went back, to save someone, or turn the battle in their favour, then Future-him would never tell him about it. And that would create a paradox. Who knew what would happen then? A new timeline, or perhaps the destruction the universe itself.

He thought of Hermione, and the tears spilled over. Would he risk it for her?

But, no. Of course he wouldn’t. Future-him as here to stop him from even considering it.

He pulled Harry’s vial from the ground. The potion inside was a beautiful, shining gold. Ron silently blessed the Half-Blood Prince’s old, tattered textbook. Snape or not, they needed a perfect Resolution Potion right now.

He glanced at Future-him again, who hesitated, and then nodded. The heavy weight of grief on his face was undeniable, but Ron suddenly felt lighter. This was going to work. He knew it.

~*~

Elphias came to slowly, his whole body aching. His head felt like it was about to split open, but he was alive. He was _alive_.

He opened one eye cautiously.

The Atrium was a scene of carnage. Bodies everywhere, the floor torn up, and that ugly black statue transformed into some kind of enormous… cage? There were survivors inside, but Mad-Eye Moody was the only one he could see outside, slumped against the far wall, his left arm cradled in his lap. It was broken, judging by the jut of bloody white Elphias could see. Which meant both arms were out of action. He was helpless. They all were.

“So,” Voldemort said, gloating, “you have failed.”

Elphias rolled, just as little, careful to make the movement as slow and imperceptible as possible. What he saw filled him with horror. Dumbledore, slumped at Voldemort’s feet. Dumbledore’s wand, pale and knotted, in Voldemort’s hand.

The Dark Lord waved it, and half-a-dozen wands flew out of the cage, clattering to the floor at his feet. “Antonin, Rabastan, restrain Dumbledore, and then heal him. He’s coming with us.” Elphias’ heart lifted. Dumbledore was still alive, then. “Yaxley, reenervate everyone who’s still alive. Join us at Hogwarts as soon as you can.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Madam Umbridge, I leave the prisoners in your hands. I expect their rebellion to be duly punished. Any members of Dumbledore’s Order are to be imprisoned awaiting execution at a date of my choosing. Their deaths, in a public forum, will serve as an example to anyone with notions of future rebellion. The Minister and Dumbledore will, of course, be the first to die. Or perhaps,” Voldemort mused, thoughtfully, “I will grant them the Kiss.”

Elphias closed his eyes.

Voldemort raised his voice, echoing through the Atrium. “For too long, the wizarding world has suffered under the rule of Muggle-loving fools. It is time they remember that magic is not a toy. Magic is power, and might, and the birthright of every upstanding, loyal pureblood in the wizarding world. _Our_ birthright, and we’re taking it back!”

A roar of approval filled the Atrium.

“Now it is time for us to go. Harry Potter is waiting.” There was mocking laughter from the Death Eaters, and Voldemort turned, gesturing to someone Elphias couldn’t see. “The girl, too,” he said.

Two Death Eaters walked into view, carrying Hestia. She was unconscious, bound in ropes, blood in her hair. Everything in Elphias revolted at the sight. Why were they taking her? What could they possibly need with her?

He closed his hand around his wand. He was the only one still free. He had to try. Voldemort and his followers were moving towards the Floos. Elphias gauged time and distance, calculating the best hope for success. The two Death Eaters holding Hestia were near the back of the group, but there were still a dozen or so between them to contend with.

He steeled himself.

Under his breath, he muttered two _Stupefys_. The Death Eaters thumped to the ground, even as Elphias shouted, “ _Accio_ Hestia!” He scrambled up. Her body flew towards him. The nearest Death Eaters began to turn. He caught her with an _Impedimenta_ , then cast a levitation spell. He raised a shield and ran the other way, one hand on Hestia’s arm, propelling her in front of him.

There were shouts behind him. Curses flashed by him, one almost grazing his arm. He ducked and twisted, careful not to run in a direct line to his goal. He was so close. Dementors were guarding the booth to the visitor’s entrance. “ _Expecto Patronum_!” he cried. A great bear burst from his wand, scattering them.

“ _Avada Kedavra_!”

He caught the flash of green out of the corner of his eye. Too late.

~*~

Pansy ran down the gentle slope of the lawn, Madam Rosmerta on her heels. “Professor McGonagall!” she called.

McGonagall glanced up, and her eyes widened. “ _STOP!_ ”

Pansy responded instinctively to the professor’s tone, digging her heels into the grass. Her arms windmilled as she fought to keep her balance. Rosmerta almost careened into her. “Whoa!” she said, skidding off to one side. Pansy grabbed her robes, and they fell backwards together in a tangled heap. “Merlin’s saggy arse!” Rosmerta gasped.

“Don’t come any closer!” McGonagall warned. “There are hidden runes all over the grounds. Stepping on them will set them off.”

“Professor, the lodestones are under attack –”

“I’m aware,” McGonagall said, grimly. “Nothing else could cause the boundary wards to react like this. Unfortunately, while Professor Dumbledore appointed me his successor many years ago, I need his body to do the ritual. Or failing that, his wand. Neither of which we have.”

“The wards are going to fall, then,” Rosmerta said.

“Any minute now,” McGonagall agreed. “I was just finishing these last runes. The others are already in position. We should join them.”

“Position where?” Pansy asked. Apart from the army just beyond the wards, there was no one in sight.

McGonagall gave her a thin smile. “We are going to force them into a bottleneck, Miss Parkinson,” she said. “Follow me, and Disillusion yourself. You too, Rosmerta, if you’ve come to fight.”

“I wouldn’t be here otherwise,” Rosmerta assured her. “Minerva, I’m sorry. I’ve been under Imperius since October.”

McGonagall’s eyes widened, and she half-turned towards the other witch. “What?” But the wards crackled, and for a split second, the sound of the army roaring reverberated through the grounds. “Come on!” she shouted, and then they were running. Across the lawn, through the trees, down a small, winding path. Heading towards the gamekeeper’s hut, Pansy realised.

She cast the Disillusionment Charm on herself. Suddenly her body was a chameleon, reflecting the lawn and the castle behind her. On the move, she could keep track of McGonagall and Rosmerta just by watching for the small shimmers of air disturbance caused by their movement, like heat-haze.

“Here,” McGonagall said.

Pansy tripped over an invisible foot. “Fuck!” she said.

“Watch it!”

“Sorry,” Pansy said. The voice was vaguely familiar. “Is that –?”

“Katie.” And then, at Pansy’s blank silence, “Katie Bell?”

“Oh,” Pansy said. The Gryffindor Draco had put in a magical coma for six months. She looked around. She could hear feet scuffing against the ground, but apart from the tell-tale shimmers from McGonagall and Rosmerta, there was nothing.

“The runes will force them along the carriage-road,” McGonagall said. “It comes right past Hagrid’s hut. The higher ground gives us an advantage. Keep moving, use the trees for cover. We should be able to hold them off for a while. As soon as it looks like we’ll be overwhelmed, we retreat back to the castle. If you’re injured, retreat or stay hidden. Professor Slughorn, three more vials, if you please.”

Pansy didn’t see any movement, but something touched her arm.

“Just me, Miss Parkinson,” Slughorn said. “Invisibility Potion. Not much; just enough to last about an hour. But I’ve combined it with a drop of Felix Felicis, to counter the risk of friendly fire. That should last a bit longer. Keep your Disillusionment Charm up; it will cover your wand and clothes. But I’d strip to your underclothes if I were you. Robes move about too much.”

Pansy grimaced, but did as she was told.

The boundary wards crackled again. This time it was several long seconds before they were up again. She wondered how many lodestones were left now. Two? One?

Soon she would be fighting for her life, and she couldn’t even see who she would be fighting alongside. She wondered if Seamus was there, somewhere in the trees, or her friends. Would they be enough? Could _any_ number really be enough against an army that size?

~*~

Draco let his fingers drift across the wall, trying to ignore the argument going on behind him.

“I am here to _help_ , Poppy,” Snape snapped. “I have no intention of harming anyone. Dumbledore spoke the truth when he said I was operating under his orders, the night of the Death Eater incursion. I am – _was_ – a spy in the Dark Lord’s ranks. But my effectiveness in that role has come to an end, and Dumbledore sent me here to help.”

“You saw Dumbledore?” Madam Pomfrey said. “When? We saw young Hestia’s message. Is he –?”

“He was not well, and yet he insisted on going into battle with the Dark Lord. I fear the worst.”

There was a pause as everyone absorbed that. Draco let the blessed silence settle into him, reaching out to the ancient threads running through the walls. So many had been uprooted from the lodestones. Only one left, and it wasn’t enough. They were a bright, painful flare in his mind, making it difficult to concentrate.

“We could use your help with making potions,” Madam Pomfrey said, at last. “We are running extremely low.”

“He doesn’t need his wand for that,” Harry pointed out.

“Salazar’s balls!” Draco yelled, turning. “Will you just _stop_?! I need Professor Snape to help me with the lodestones! We don’t have time for this fucking _debate_!”

“Draco,” his mother chided.

Draco flinched. “I’m sorry, Mother,” he said. “But you shouldn’t even _be_ here! You were supposed to leave. If not by Portkey, you should have taken the train to London –”

“Oh, Draco,” she said, gently. “Look at them. How could I go?”

Draco had been trying very hard not to, in fact. There were more beds crammed into the not-inconsiderable space than he’d ever seen, and every single one of them was filled. There was a curtain drawn around a bed at the end; another death, before the battle had even begun. “I know. That’s why I have to do this. I can protect you all.”

“But the bond’s closed,” Harry said, stupidly. “How –?”

Draco ignored him. “It will only take a few minutes. I just need Professor Snape, and _quiet_.”

“I hesitate to say that’s impossible,” Pomfrey said, “given your recent history with impossible feats. But the ritual to create lodestones takes _seven_ wizards and three days to complete. How do you propose to do it in a few minutes, with only Severus to help?”

“I don’t,” Draco said. “I intend to do the stones myself. I just need him to cast the wards.” Granted, it would be easier with Harry, whose abilities complemented his own. He could create the stones, and Harry the wards. But that would mean opening the bond, and he’d shut _that_ down as soon as he exited the secret passage. He refused to even countenance the idea of opening it again. Snape would just have to do.

“Oh, hell no!” Harry protested. “We still don’t know if he can be trusted!”

Draco rounded on him. “Merlin’s beard, Potter! I’m telling you, it’s not important right now!”

“Do you _want_ him to leave a great gaping hole for the Death Eaters to get in, is that it?” Harry demanded, eyes a little wild. “Madam Pomfrey, we can’t take the risk!”

“I don’t disagree with your concerns, Mr Potter,” Madam Pomfrey assured him. “But if Mr Malfoy believes he can create lodestones to protect my infirmary, I will give him all the help he needs. Auror Proudfoot will supervise, and then, Severus, your wand will be confiscated. I’ll give you a list of our most pressing potions requirements, and you can set up in the quarantine –”

A bright flash came from the window. The concussive blast went right through Draco. He staggered, and Greg caught his arm, steadying him.

The last lodestone.

“What was that?” a younger version of Creepy-Creevy cried.

Harry yanked a curtain back. “The wards are down,” he said. He met Draco’s eyes. “I have to go.”

Draco nodded, even as every fibre of his being yearned to beg Harry to stay. But he couldn’t ask that of him, and he couldn’t join him out there; not yet. He had to put up the wards. He had to protect his mother.

“Draco,” Harry said, still holding his gaze. “Stay here. Stay _safe_.”

And then he was gone.

~*~

Bellatrix screamed in triumph as the wards fell. The army roared in response, and with a gesture, Bellatrix sent them streaming through the gates.

The runes began to go off almost immediately.

Pansy watched in terrified awe as the first explosion took out five Death Eaters at once. A battery of tiny darts shot into the front lines, injuring dozens. Further down the lawn, a Smoke Charm went off, and began to spread rapidly. A hooded vampire went up in flames. The fire caught on another’s robes, and then another’s.

A giant lumbered over the line, but was caught by a rune in the next row. He bellowed in terror, arms windmilling as he fought unseen enemies. Spinning clumsily, he stampeded back the way he came. Death Eaters threw themselves out of his way, triggering more runes. Three simultaneous explosions, deafeningly loud.

They were trying to stop, retreat. The smoke was already covering half the lawn. Someone triggered a Black Ice Curse, turning the grass into a deadly, slippery slope.

“STOP!” Bellatrix shouted, using _Sonorus_. “HALT!”

Pansy could just see her, back by the broken front gates. The vast bulk of the army was still arrayed behind her, but her frontline troops were in chaos, lost in the smoke, trying to fall back, some succeeding, others getting turned around and going the wrong way. The black ice was a stroke of brilliance. They were screaming, feet slipping out from under them, sending them careening into the second and third row of runes.

But there were already those re-grouping.

“This way!” Augustus Rookwood roared.

Wand raised, he led half-a-dozen Death Eaters through what he obviously believed to be a safe path. But the runes were too densely packed. A Scorching Rune caught two of them. The rest were thrown backwards as Rookwood stepped on a rune in the third row.

Pansy watched Bellatrix. There was a reason the Dark Lord had made her his second-in-command. She might be insane, but she was also highly intelligent. She was barking orders, and the Death Eaters were scrambling to reveal the runes, or find a path through. It wouldn’t be long before they found the carriage road. And once they realised it was a bottleneck, the Anti-Apparition wards would be next. Unless, of course, Bellatrix was already working on them, too. She probably was; Pansy wouldn’t underestimate her.

“Here they come,” Katie murmured.

~*~

“Air intake shaft,” Charlie whispered, as they slid past it. “That’s the third one. We’re almost there.”

They were in the vents of the Ministry for Magic.

The London headquarters had been built during the latter part of the seventeenth century, shortly after the International Statute of Secrecy had been signed. The fear and paranoia of those early days had resulted in a fortress-type complex that was almost impossible to break into the Muggle way. Fortunately, Charlie and Bill had spent much of their childhood exploring its secrets. Safer for Arthur to take them to work, their mother had thought, than risk them accidentally venturing outside the Burrow’s wards. It had been dark days, then; even as young as he’d been, Charlie remembered. But it afforded them an advantage now.

It was a perilous climb down to the Atrium, but Charlie was a dragon-tamer. He knew some pretty nifty spells for dangerous climbing.

He’d brought along a dozen of his mates from the reserve, and they slid down the vent, the spell that tied them together slipping softly through their hands. George was in front, lighting the way with his wand between his teeth. Fred was right behind him, so they were the first to hear it.

Charlie shoved at him. “Why are you stopping?”

“Wait,” Fred hissed. “Listen.”

Charlie waved at his mates above them to stop. Then he heard it, too. Screams, echoing up the vent. He saw red, rage flooding every cell of his body. “Keep going!”

George slid down a little further, peering through a grate. Fred crowded in behind him, and Charlie strained to see over their shoulders. In the room below was a toad-faced woman in vibrant pink robes. Charlie vaguely recognised her as the Senior Undersecretary to the Minister, Umbridge. But that wasn’t what caught his attention.

Bill was yelling from inside some kind of enormous cage, his eyes fixed on someone twisting upside-down in the air. Their _mother_. Her face was bright red, her robes falling down around her armpits, revealing her beloved old-fashioned pantaloons.

Umbridge flicked her wand gleefully. “ _Crucio_.”

Molly screamed.

Charlie didn’t hesitate. The twins spun to press themselves to either side of the vent. “ _Reducto_!” Charlie shouted. It blasted the metal grate outwards. The twins jumped out after it, landing right in the middle of a group of armed Death Eaters.

“Well –” Fred began.

“– hello there,” George said.

Charlie dropped down beside them, putting his back to theirs. “We’re here for our family,” he growled.

~*~

Draco didn’t need to reach far. Without the lodestones to anchor them, thousands of loose threads were unravelling. The wards, all the spells and charms that made Hogwarts what it was. They were far too powerful for him to touch, but he could follow the smaller threads. His fingers found a rich vein of magic – almost like a physical support beam – and the hair on the back of his neck prickled.

“Here,” he said. It was a simple request. He asked, and the Wild Magic granted. Four lodestones, at perfect equidistance from each other around the room. It was heady, that power. Intoxicating. Outside, an army streamed over Hogwarts’ grounds, but in here, he could keep everyone safe, with just a thought. “Professor?”

“Already?” Snape said, unable to hide his surprise.

Draco looked up. “Yes, sir.”

“Your control has improved markedly since I last saw you,” Snape said, frowning. He raised his wand, beginning the slow trace of his wand across the walls. Strands of magic flowed out of his wand and weaved together, and Draco caught the ends as Snape fed them to him, winding them around his fingers and embedding them deep in the lodestones. “You are using elemental magic.”

Draco nodded.

“Even with – how did Potter put it, your bond ‘closed’?”

Draco paused, the magic shimmering on his hands. He could still use Earth Magic, so he’d just assumed that went both ways. But Snape was right. Harry had seemed surprised, even confused, by his declaration. Granted, he hadn’t dwelled on it long, but that was typical oblivious Potter.

 _Fuck_.

“He’s not blocking me,” he said. Harry wasn’t angry with him, or even upset. He was grieving the fracture in their relationship, but that wasn’t stopping Draco from drawing from the earth. The shield Draco had slammed into place between them, on the other hand… “I’m blocking _him_.”

“I see,” Snape said. He waved his wand one last time, sealing the wards to create an impenetrable barrier around the infirmary. “It’s done.”

Draco stood. “I have to let him in again.” It was the only way.

“You will do no such thing!” Snape snapped, startling him. “Were you not listening to me? It’s a heart-bond! You know what that means. If he dies, so do you. Under _no_ _circumstances_ are you to open that bond. Do you hear me? If there is even a _chance_ that keeping it closed when he dies will save you –”

“ _When_ he dies?” Draco echoed.

Snape sighed. “Draco, you don’t understand. There’s a prophecy –”

“I know the fucking prophecy!” Draco snapped. “And I know Dumbledore’s fucked-up interpretation of it. I won’t let the Dark Lord kill him!”

“Draco,” Snape said, grabbing his shoulders. “Don’t be a fool! You are still young. There will be life again after the war. Love, even! Potter isn’t worth dying for.”

Draco shook his head. “You don’t believe that. You told me yourself, you lost someone you loved, and you’ve regretted it ever since. What Harry did… I don’t know if there’s a future for us. But I _do_ know that not only is he worth dying for, he’s worth _not_ dying for. And I know he feels the same way about me.”

Snape stared at him, baffled. “Have you lost your mind?”

“No,” Draco said. He didn’t smile. “My heart, remember?”

~*~

The wooden bridge was the most direct route out to the lawn, where a thick cloud of smoke already covered the frontline troops. Harry could see the flashes of runes going off, even far to the north near the Forbidden Forest, and all the way to the south-west, past the Black Lake. The Death Eaters were trying to go around. Which meant the Anti-Apparition wards were still up, at least.

Seamus, Neville and Ginny were casting some kind of trigger-release charm on the bridge. Given Seamus’ propensity for explosions, Harry was pretty sure it would spell bad news for any Death Eaters who dared step foot on it.

“Tell Professor McGonagall we’ll be ready!” Seamus called, as he passed.

Harry nodded.

Ginny made a move as if she might reach out to him, but then clearly thought the better of it. Harry was glad. He just couldn’t, right now.

He cast the Magnifying Charm on his glasses as he ran down the bridge. Suddenly he could see the army up close, and he startled, almost tripping over his own feet. He put a hand blindly on the railing, following it down the bridge as he scanned the army. It was a chaotic mess of Death Eaters and vampires and a giants twice as big as trolls. A Death Eater slipped right in front of him, triggering a violent, fiery explosion. Harry shouted, falling back.

“Fuck!” The sound of the explosion was distant, but for a second there –

“Harry!”

A massive blur of pale freckled red loomed in front of him. Harry cast _Stupefy_ without even thinking. There was a thump. Harry blinked up at a spider almost as big as Aragog. “ARGH!”

He tore off his glasses. Suddenly all he could see was the roof. Hands shaking a little, he cast _Finite_ on his glasses, and then shoved them back onto his nose. The spider was a tiny thing, dangling harmlessly from its web in the corner of a wooden beam. “You,” Harry told it, heart pounding in his chest, “are _bloody_ lucky it wasn’t Ron who saw you there.” He looked around for his assailant. “Dammit. Ron.” He cast _Reenervate_ , helping his best friend sit up. “Sorry, mate.”

“Bloody hell,” Ron groaned, rubbing the back of his head. “Make it back from the bloody future for you, and this is the thanks I get?”

Harry’s eyes caught on a denser part of the smoke, which was moving oddly. Almost… purposefully? “Oh, _fuck_.”

Ron scrambled up. “What?”

“Dementors,” Harry said.

~*~

“Cover me!” Fred yelled.

George whirled into position. A moment later, three dragon-tamers were there, too, surrounding his twin. He threw up a _Protego_. Half-a-dozen curses exploded against the shield. It fell, and George only just managed to deflect an ugly-looking spell with a tail of black smoke. It rebounded, hitting a Death Eater in the face. He screamed, clawing at his eyes as his face melted.

“George!” Fred called.

George turned quickly, catching the bundle his twin tossed at him. He grinned, donning the defensive clothing. Fred tossed more bundles at the dragon-tamers, and they followed his lead. The clothes would deflect or dissipate most hexes and jinxes, even some curses. Fred and George had designed theirs with extendable pockets, and they’d filled them with Wheezes before leaving for Heathrow.

“ _Avada Kedavra_!” yelled a Death Eater.

George ducked and rolled. He shoved a hand into his pocket, pulling out a Tiny Twister. He threw it to the floor. The jar shattered, and a tornado roared upwards. George aimed it at a group of Death Eaters.

Screaming, they scattered.

Fred set off a bunch of Wildfire Whizbangs, and the Atrium erupted in fireworks.

George kept his shoulder pressed against Fred’s as he pulled out yet another trick. The Atrium was chaos. Spells were useless against the tornado, and it was _fast_. More than one Death Eater failed to move out of the way quickly enough, and got caught up in it. The fireworks were a good distraction, multiplying in number every time someone tried to vanish one.

George grinned, and set off his Decoy Detonator. It scurried away on four legs and exploded behind the enormous black cage imprisoning their family. Death Eaters yelled, some going to investigate the sound only to get taken out by the tornado.

“Felger!” cried one, trying to get close enough to save their fellow.

“Idiot!” Yaxley screamed, grabbing his arm and shoving him back into the fight. “Get them! Get the Weasleys!”

George glanced at his twin. Charlie and his mates were circling behind the Death Eaters to where Umbridge was holding their mother hostage. Bill and a few others were watching helplessly from inside the cage. He couldn’t see Percy or their father.

“Georgie!” Fred yelled. He ducked. A spell whizzed by overhead. “Swamp!”

George nodded, digging in his pocket for the handful of green goo. He threw it down. It spread like Fiendfyre through the room, turning the floor into a deadly swamp. The dragon-tamers reacted with the dizzying speed of their occupation. Almost as one, they shouted, “ _Augifico_!” and shoved their hands into their pockets. The tiny brooms they pulled out popped back to their original sizes. They were leaping onto them before the Death Eaters even realized what was going on.

Only Yaxley kept his head. He Disapparated, appearing on solid ground near Rowle. The rest of them were floundering in the muddy water, already sinking, spells going wild in their panic.

“Apparate _,_ you fools!” Yaxley screamed.

Fred pulled out a Canary Cream, and held it up for George to see. “ _Depulso ore,_ ” he murmured, and the sweet vanished.

“Appa –!” Yaxley tried to say, but his mouth was suddenly filled with creamy custard. He swallowed involuntarily, and with an indignant squawk, turned into a tiny canary. George conjured a bird cage around him, and hung it from the ceiling.

“Very nice,” Fred congratulated him.

Up until that moment, Pius Thicknesse had been hugging the wall, staying out of the fight. Now he rushed forward. Fred and George fell back in confusion, but Thicknesse was focused entirely on Yaxley, casting _Finite_ several times before trying other counter-curses. Of course, there was no effect. Fred and George had spent quite a bit of time perfecting their Canary Creams. Yaxley was going to be stuck like that for an hour at least. With a snarl, Thicknesse turned.

George raised an eyebrow. “Switched sides –”

“– have we, sir?” Fred finished, casting a Permanent Sticking Charm at Thicknesse’s shoes. He tried to move, and almost fell. “Are you sure you’ve thought that through? I mean –”

“– the black robes, for starters,” George said. Thicknesse scowled, and his empty eyes sent a shiver down George’s spine. “Not your finest –”

“– fashion choice,” Fred said. “Not to mention the hideous tattoo, you know?”

Thicknesse raised his wand. He didn’t speak aloud, but the yellow flash was distinctive. George threw himself at his brother. He barely heard Fred’s yell. Three lines of fire opened up across his side.

He screamed.

“ _Stupefy_!” Fred shouted. There was a muffled thump. He couldn’t breathe. Oh Merlin, oh Merlin, it _hurt_ – “I’ve got you, I’ve got you,” Fred muttered, and George realised he was being cradled in his twin’s arms. He wondered how they’d ended up on the ground.

“Hurts,” he moaned.

Fred hushed him, and George panicked. Their defensive clothing could only do so much. If Fred was looking after him, who was looking after Fred? “Shut up,” Fred said, his voice choked. “Shut up. Charlie’s here.”

 _Oh_ , George thought, relieved. A sudden, sharp increase in pain made him gasp. He looked down to see Fred’s hands pressing down on his wounds. “Stop,” he protested, trying to push him away. Maybe that was why he couldn’t breathe. “Freddie, stop...”

“Stay with me!” Fred said. “George, stay with me!”

It seemed to take an enormous effort, but George turned his gaze up to his twin’s face. He was very pale, mouthing something that George couldn’t make out. _It’s all right_ , George wanted to say. _If this is the way I die, I’m glad it’s with you_.

But he couldn’t. His breath was gone.


End file.
